Regelen
by rowan-greenleaf
Summary: <html><head></head>In which Dumbledore's incessant meddling pays off, as Harry Potter finally gets a break and Draco Malfoy gets screwed; sort of...D/G fic, winner of multiple awards in The DG Forum Fic Exchange - Spring 2010.</html>
1. Changed

This story was written for **Incognito's **prompt in The DG Forum Fic Exchange - Spring 2010.

It won "Best Fanfiction Overall', "Best Chaptered Fic Overall", "Best Characterization of Ginny" and "Best Kiss".

Many thanks to** idreamofdraco** (Jessica) for beta-reading.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One: Changed<strong>

He felt the weight of the cloak suffocating him before he realized that he was awake. Instantly he became aware of the various cricks in the muscles of his back and in his neck, the result of falling asleep in his chair, hunched over a forbidden book. His glasses seemed to have become permanently embedded in his face, pushed up against his eyes in his sleep.

He muttered a curse under his breath and sat up groggily, remembering to evaluate his surroundings before ripping the Invisibility Cloak off his head. His indomitable raven black hair sprung up, released, and his lungs filled with the cool, stale night air of the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library.

Harry removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, fragmented thoughts and images still drifting through his head after his impromptu nap. He was exhausted, the result of several nights of missing sleep while he poured over the ancient books. He realized this would have been much simpler if he'd had Hermione's or even Ron's help. It was so hard to have to block them out, to know that he'd have to do everything without them for the first time since they'd come into his life. But he must, for their sake. And he would.

Harry stretched, feeling his muscles ripple and unclench, and let out a relieved grunt. He drew in a deep breath, and for a moment there was silence in him. And then, something else.

What was that nagging him, like a tug on the back of his head? Underneath the physical and mental wear there was something he realized he was neglecting. Something had happened, something he should be aware of... Yes, there it was: a feeling of excitement, of something important.

And now he remembered.

Fingers still cramped and tingling, Harry quickly scanned along the page he'd been reading before falling asleep. His heart palpitated quickly, feverishly, as his eyes fastened on the words he had been in search of for days.

It was a brew, and it was surprisingly simple.

This would change everything. It had to.

"_Memoria_," he murmured, quickly running the tip of his wand over the potion's ingredients and preparation instructions.

Inevitably, he thought of Hermione, who had developed the quick copy spell out of practicality and had later regretted her creation once she saw the various uses Harry and Ron had for it.

Hermione and Ron. The Weasleys.

He saw their faces and felt a tightness in his chest, not unlike the feeling of being prodded with the tip of a broomstick.

This _had_ to work.

He was finished here, and now he must return all books to their original places in the shelves, erasing all evidence of his presence. He would next visit Hermione's supply closet in the third floor to gather the necessary ingredients; all but one - the human element - which would not be acquired so simply.

In fact it would be days before he finally managed to collect it.

He would work well into the night, and when at last he collapsed into his bed, fully clothed as in previous nights, he would immediately succumb to sleep but not to rest, his mind plagued by uneasy dreams.

**OOO**

_The sun shone through the bright green canopy of leaves, its rays bouncing off the smooth surface of the lake and shining down her back at that precise angle that made her fierce red hair glow as if it were fire. He glanced at the tresses wonderingly, resisting the urge to reach up and thread his fingers in them. He wondered if her hair would be as soft as he imagined it to be, like silk through his fingers._

_She spoke his name, and he pretended to ignore the pang in his chest, a tiny flower of pain blooming somewhere deep within him. His eyes flicked back up to hers, pools of liquid amber, as he schooled his features into simple askance. _

"_Yes?"_

"_When you...I mean..." She paused, and his heart caught at what she might say. "Is everything alright with us?" she asked finally._

"_What can you mean?" he asked, genuinely intrigued._

_Their eyes remained latched onto each other, and that single moment seemed to stretch on to infinity. _

"_Nothing," she murmured finally, looking away. _

_But he had noticed the hint of red in her cheeks. His hand ached to touch her so much that his fingers actually contracted where they lay inches away from hers. He ached to feel her skin against his, but he remained unmoving._

_She stared at the surface of the water, and he stared at her. _

**OOO**

Draco Malfoy awoke from a bizarre dream. His mind still drifting through the haze of phantom images, and when he opened his eyes he experienced a brief sense of disorientation.

He struggled to remember what had happened this time, but already the scraps of images and sounds, words and feelings that had been so blindingly intense mere moments ago were vanishing in the light of the sun. All that remained was the strange, uncomfortable feeling of dissociation from himself. As if he were someone else.

It was the third night in a row he'd had such dreams, and he was beginning to become irritated with himself for what he deemed adolescent behavior.

He closed his eyes against the glare of the sun, then turned away until he was facing the blood red velvet of the curtains, which remained undrawn at the foot of his bed. He could hear a persistent snoring in the distance, like the sound of an old engine.

_I must be dreaming still_, he decided, stretching his back lazily and giving a quick, silent yawn.

_Red curtains in my room... _He almost scoffed, but the pain behind his eyes made him want to lay very still.

He knew that lately he'd been smoking too much, drinking too much, shagging too much and sleeping too little, but he hadn't realized just how hungry his body was for sleep until this very instant. He rubbed his eyes hesitantly – _ouch – _and opened them again, letting his eyelids flutter experimentally.

There they were – red curtains. Unmoving, unchanging. Blood red.

Draco blinked.

He stirred, sat up and looked around the completely unfamiliar lay out of his surroundings. The room continued to refuse to change into what it should be, though he was certain that he was by now wide awake. Fuzzy, but awake.

He blinked again.

There were other beds here. There were other people. And everything, from the curtains, to the rug, to his own bed sheets, was done in bright red and gold, together almost triumphant in their gaudy splendor.

And what on earth was he _wearing_, he thought in alarm, clawing at the front of his chest. A Canon's shirt over worn navy blue jeans he didn't even own.

He inhaled sharply, his breath hitching, a curse unuttered as he looked around in disbelief.

This had to be some kind of joke – yes, that was it.

_That bastard Zabini, _Draco thought with a strange feeling of relief_. I wonder how he managed this._

Clearly that little prick had somehow transported Draco into the heart of the Gryffindor boys' dorms during his sleep – Yes, _that_ was it, and not something more ominous. That was the only explanation for the tackiness of the décor and the presence of the sleeping forms of Longbottom and a snoring Finnigan, whose beds were arranged not too far away from the one he occupied.

Draco shook his head in reluctant admiration, wondering how he would ever manage to get back at Blaise for this._ This_ – this topped everything.

Now alert and recuperating from his initial shock, the Malfoy heir concentrated on thinking of ways he could conceivably make it out of this in one piece.

Rising to his feet, Draco tried his best to ignore the pounding in his head and the blurring of his vision as he crept cautiously towards the half-opened trunk at the foot of the bed. Casting the other occupants of the room a sidelong glance – or glare, in Finnigan's case – he quietly searched for a hood or something he could alter to cover his gleaming white-blond hair with. That hair in the lair of Gryffindor would attract more attention than Hagrid sipping Earl Gray at one of Narcissa's Saturday afternoon high tea gatherings.

Questionable fashion choices abounded within the trunk, however, he found no hoods. Curling his lip in distaste, Draco let a maroon wool sweater with a giant _H_ sewn on the chest drop to the floor.

He decided the best he could do was transfigure a black sweater that looked like it could be promising.

Reaching for his wand, he was surprised to find not his own familiar 10" hawthorne wood with core of unicorn hair stashed under the band of his jeans, but a strange wand that was seemingly made of a lighter type of wood, possibly holly. He stared at it wonderingly. How could Blaise have possibly –

"Morning," Longbottom murmured from his bed, glancing up at Draco disinterestedly. He then proceeded to open his mouth and yawn widely, throwing his head back in the process.

Draco's eyes widened a few millimeters, but the rest of his body remained frozen. He stood stark still, as if by not moving he could avoid attracting Longbottom's attention.

_But he looked straight at me! _he mused, staring at the still yawning boy in amazement.

And then his eyes met the bright green ones that stared back at him from the mirror on Longbottom's wall.

"_Potter!"_ he whispered, holding up his wand reflexively.

Indeed, Harry freaking Potter stared back at him _from the mirror—_the mirror!—jet black hair sticking up crazily, wand in hand, bloodshot eyes narrowed fiercely in a way Draco had never seen before.

"Harry! What are you doing?" Longbottom demanded laughingly, observing as Draco pointed his wand at his own reflection in the mirror.

Draco continued to stare at the mirror, and the expression on Potter's face slowly became a mask of horror, bright green eyes now round with shock.

"_Crap_," Potter's lips murmured, just as the door swung open and a very angry Ronald Weasley barged into the room.

**OOO**

He awoke on his side and automatically reached for his glasses, which were resting by the right upper corner of his pillow. His fingers searched blindly, found nothing.

He sighed.

Flipping on his back, he opened his eyes and blinked. He was surprised to find himself looking up into a dark green canopy, and even more surprised when he turned on his side again and found himself looking at a woman's bare back, the sharply defined curve of her side fighting for his attention as much as the unblemished expanse of bare, pale skin did. Rivulets of dark curls cascaded down to the mattress under her, and Harry could do nothing but stare in amazement.

She stirred in her sleep and turned to face him, and Harry's eyes widened when he confirmed that she was, in fact, a girl in his year – Daphne Greengrass, his mind supplied – and she was, in fact, completely and gloriously naked. A moment later her green eyes flipped open and came into focus, and she immediately sat up, staring back at Harry with the expression of a whipped puppy.

"What are you doing here?" he blurted, struggling to keep his eyes on her face, his hands attempting to disguise the massive tent he was pitching underneath the green silk of the sheets.

"I'm so sorry! Please don't be angry...I know you said I had to leave, but...it's just...you looked so beautiful asleep," she mumbled, blushing pitifully, and Harry's eyebrows knit in confusion at her words, at her demeanor, at her continued nakedness.

"What did I say?" he inquired slowly.

A sound like a whimper escaped from her throat, and she looked down at her hands. "That you didn't like sleep-overs," she whispered softly.

Harry stared. Part of him wondered what on earth was going on, while some other part of him was attempting to reconcile this creature with his image of the Greengrass girl. He had come across her in the hallways with Pansy Parkinson quite a few times, registered her as one of the prettier Slytherin girls, enveloped in the same varnish of superiority and indifference that all of them displayed by default. Never would he have pictured this submissive, child-like display of – fear? – as something to be associated with her. With any Slytherin. What was going on?

_Why is she naked?_

"I said that?" he said quietly, more to fill the silence than anything. What was wrong with his voice? He resisted the urge to clear his throat.

To his surprise, Daphne Greengrass winced and scurried out of the bed, gathering an armful of clothes and disappearing behind one of the doors in the large room they were in. Harry followed her with his eyes in silence, half-dreading her return.

When she emerged from the same door some time later, something in Harry had changed, a connection had been made in his mind, a memory emerged from the fog of his confusion.

He was not surprised to see her fully clothed in her Slytherin uniform, robes and all.

"I'm sorry," she murmured again, looking at his face but not meeting his eyes.

Harry didn't reply. He merely lay there, his eyes closed as he listened to the soft click of the door latch as she exited the room.

Yes, connections had been made. He now understood why the canopy was green, why his skin was so pale, his voice so deep. Why there had been such apprehension in the girl's eyes.

Even so, he still reeled from shock when he met the face that awaited him in the mirror.

* * *

><p><strong>Incognito's Prompt (1):<strong>

**Basic outline:** Harry and Draco have switched bodies. You heard me. Harry, at first, sees this as an advantage, a means to have insight into the nefarious world of Slytherin, the unofficial house of junior Death Eaters. Unfortunately, the green-eyed hero ends up getting more than what he bargained for. On the flip side of the coin, Draco wakes up to a reality that he desperately wishes to escape; however, the blond soon discovers that there are a few "perks" afforded to the one who goes by the infamous title of The Boy Who Lived, namely a red-haired vixen. Mystery, adventure, and unlikely romance(s) abound.

**Must haves:** We must find out _why_ Harry and Draco have switched bodies, and, inevitably, they must be reverted back to their former selves (i.e. there must be closure/resolve). It must be humorous; however, it can also be serious. While we should see both Draco and Harry's PoVs, the emphasis must be on Draco (because we love the Boy-Ferret the most). Ginny is not to be forgotten either. She quickly discovers that "Harry" is not acting like Harry, and Draco, eventually, ends up enlisting her aid to discover a way for him to regain his former body.

**No-no's:** No excessive swearing. No smut. You can have "heated" scenes, but no smut.

**Rating range:** K-T

**Bonus points: **Blaise, Pansy, Ron, Luna, and Hermione make cameos.


	2. Unnerved

**Chapter Two: Unnerved**

Draco Malfoy hid.

He was in Harry Potter's body, amongst the people who presumably knew Harry Potter best – his bloody roommates in the bloody Gryffindor dorm. Upon being confronted by a very angry Ronald Weasley—_Where in blazes have you been?_ the red-haired boy had demanded hotly, sounding remarkably like an irate housewife—the Slytherin had opted for the only sensible thing to do: surrender his spot.

"I – I, uh... Exhausted..." he had mumbled incoherently, shocked at hearing Potter's voice, thick from sleep and true exhaustion, coming from his own throat.

Taking two steps back he had stumbled into Potter's bed, not meeting any of the eyes that were on him. An automatic flick of the unknown wand had drawn the scarlet drapes around the bed, mercifully shielding him from view.

_He doesn't know it's me - they don't know it's me! Weasley and Longbottom think I'm Potter. But HOW-_

Despite the roar of his own frazzled thoughts bouncing around in his head, Draco could distinctly hear the Weasley boy's exasperated sigh on the other side of the curtain, and the way Finnigan continued to snore like a Muggle engine on its last throes.

The relief he'd felt at knowing he hadn't been discovered vanished as the sheer reality of the situation began to sink in; _this was really happening_. What was worse, he had no idea why or how to fix it.

"Harry," Weasel whispered insistently, sticking his brightly colored head in between the curtains. He brought his face so close that the Slytherin felt he could count every single freckle. "Where have you been – What's going on? Why won't you let us help?"

Draco closed his eyes.

_Maybe if I just lay here he'll leave,_ he thought fervently.

And then he felt the mattress sink under the weight of another body. His eyes flipped open.

_Ha! I __KNEW_ _it!_ part of him snarled triumphantly, while the rest of him cringed at the prospect of the homoerotic moment that would no doubt follow. He lay there tensely, ready to jump out of bed if need be.

_If he kisses me, he's done for_, Draco promised.

But what Weasley said next made him slowly relax.

"Hermione and I have been worried sick! You've been acting so strange lately...Harry, you're up to something, we know it. And where have you been sleeping, anyway? You look like shite, mate... We've been looking all over for you. Hermione got caught out of bed by Snape and now she has two detentions with him...we lost more points..."

Closing his eyes, Draco processed the flood of information, too tired and too unnerved to rejoice at that last part.

If Potter was being weird that gave him some room to maneuver; at least until he could find a way to get out. The main thing was not to get discovered.

He was surprised at his own clarity of mind, at his calmness. His body – Potter's body, he corrected himself – was depleted, but he felt more alert than he'd ever been in his entire life.

_Merlin's balls, Finnigan snores like an old cow, _some part of him observed with a flicker of irritation. _Weasley, get on with it... _

"Harry, what's going on? You keep saying you can't tell us, but we can help – whatever it is. It's like you don't even trust us anymore..."

_Yes, yes... Do you have any theories?_

"You've been acting so strangely since Dumbledore left...I think it must be something he told you...something about V-Voldemort?" The redhead stumbled on the dreaded name and Draco winced at hearing it spoken out loud.

He waited, but Weasley added nothing more.

The silence stretched on between them, and the Slytherin realized it was up to him to put an end to the conversation.

"I'm... sorry," he said at last, staring fixedly at the ceiling. "I really can't tell you anything now...you'll just have to trust me on this."

"But Harry –"

" – And now I'm afraid I'll need to be excused," Draco cut in, turning on his side, "I am _dreadfully _exhausted..."

He could feel Weasley's surprised stare on the back of his head. He'd just experienced the Narcissa Malfoy dismissal, and it never failed.

Draco remained silent, stubbornly entrenched in Potter's bed until the red-haired boy gave up and left. There he lay, drifting in and out of a deep, exhausted sleep, until he could no longer hear any sounds in the room, until even the lazy Irish wanker, Finnigan, had finally gotten up and joined the others in search of breakfast.

It was then that Draco emerged, cautiously, one foot at a time, feeling like the last human being left on the face of the Earth after some catastrophe of nuclear - nay, apocalyptic - proportions.

What in Salazar's name had happened, he wondered for the hundredth time, patting himself all over with disbelieving hands.

He faced Longbottom's mirror again, his hand automatically going to the lightening bolt shaped scar that branded the high forehead. It was surprisingly smooth.

Okay - What was the big deal?

Draco scoffed in spite of himself.

(And here it must be said, for it is indeed true, that Draco did pause a moment to slip a calloused hand under the band of his jeans, groping about with some interest. His hand secured around its target, and he snorted. _Well that explains a lot..._)

More interesting to him were the twin scars on the backs of Potter's hands that read, if one squinted at them enough: '_I must not tell lies'_ on the left hand and '_I will not break rules_' on the right.

He flexed the short fingers, spreading the hands and staring at them for some moments. Then he met the bright green eyes of Potter in the mirror, making a cursory inspection of the admittedly handsome, if unexceptional, features.

He was in truly deep troll dung.

For, he realized, this was not his own body disguised as Potter's by means of potions and charms. Part of him had understood from the beginning that he was indeed occupying Potter's body – _HOW? Why? Who could have possibly – HOW? Where was Potter now? Where was his own body?_

Tearing his eyes away from the awful reflection in the mirror, Draco ran his hands through the thick, unruly hair that now crowned his head. His heart accelerated almost painfully – he could almost feel it fluttering in his throat – but he refused to panic.

He was, like in all else, completely on his own in this predicament, he knew. It was up to him to make sense of this and fix it; he mustn't panic and he mustn't be rash.

Looking around the room, he decided to begin by doing the most obvious thing: the Slytherin made a thorough search of all the contents of the trunk at the foot of the bed and the cabinet by its side. Few things were particularly interesting; if his belongings were anything to go by, for a person so celebrated and discussed Harry Potter was surprisingly boring.

Of note was a blank piece of parchment found under the thick mattress. Draco examined it carefully, convinced it was magical in some way.

"_Specialis Revelio," _he murmured, waving his wand over it.

He watched, mystified, as ink lines appeared over the previously smooth parchment. Words formed, but Draco had to push the parchment nearly up to his nose in order to make them out – his eyes seemed to be still blurry.

He nearly toppled over in shock when he was at last able to read what had appeared.

_**Nice try, little dragon. Now run along to your dungeon.**_

Draco swore under his breath as the words disappeared, fading as if they'd never been there at all. The parchment knew him, knew he was Draco, even in Potter's body.

What in Salazar's name was this?

He'd have to find out later. Pocketing the rolled up parchment, Draco looked around the room one last time. No stone had been left unturned, so to speak, but he'd learned nothing. Certain people would kill to be in his position, but they'd be disappointed to find that there were no letters, no diaries, no dirty secrets – nothing really personal to be found here.

As he exited Harry Potter's room still very much in possession of Harry Potter's body, Draco Malfoy took notice of all the things that as the son of a prominent Death Eater were his duty and he was neglecting to do. He turned these things around in his mind, contemplating them in exactly the same way an old lady examines fruit at a market that she knows she has no intention of buying.

Maybe this was all a big test... In that case he was determined to fail resoundingly; it occurred to him that if he had been singled out, perhaps this was why. If someone had detected this in him then his character was more flawed than even Lucius suspected.

_How like your mother._

The thought caused a tiny hurt, like an ant bite might. He let it lie still in his mind, refusing to prod it further, concentrating instead on another angle; no use being paranoid.

As things were, something like this could only serve to lessen his family's already precarious standing within the ranks of Voldemort. No one could ever know that this had happened to him, and that was as much his goal as recovering his own body.

Squaring his shoulders, Draco gave Potter's face one last glance as he exited the room.

**OOO**

Unlike the – appropriately – serpentine maze that was Slytherin, Gryffindor's lay out was straightforward enough and thus easy to navigate. Following the only corridor to its end led Draco to what was obviously the common room: a large and well lit room full of average quality furniture and done in – what else? – red and gold.

There was one person here, female, from what Draco could distinguish, sitting at a desk by one of the fireplaces, quill in hand. An assortment of books and a wide piece of parchment was laid out before her. He was unable to make out her features until he walked by her, at which time he realized that she was staring straight up at him.

_And you are...?_

Draco paused; he nearly had to press his face up to hers in order to get a good look – what was wrong with his eyes, for Merlin's sake?

Her large, amber brown eyes were eyes fixed on his face curiously in turn, but she remained unmoving as he inspected her, their faces inches apart.

Her hair was of a vibrant auburn shade, hanging loosely in unbroken waves down to her waist. She had a pretty, distinctive sort of face, dusted by freckles and dominated by large eyes and plump lips. She was staring at him so intensely that he wondered if he'd have to fend off the sexual advances of a Weasley, after all.

This time the prospect was not so unpleasant, for this was obviously girl Weaseley; the one with the fine rack and killer curves, the one with the mean Grip Roll, the one with the hand-me-downs (from whom, exactly if she was the only girl?)—in short, the one known as 'Ginny', or something equally inane... (Oh, who was he kidding? He knew perfectly well what her name was.)

All things considered, if one had to be assaulted by a Weasley, this would be the one you'd want, for sure.

They continued to stare at each other in silence for some moments, until finally she blinked.

"Harry...What are you doing?" she inquired calmly, their faces so close together that he could feel her warm breath on his face. "And where are your glasses?"

_Glasses?_

Draco mentally kicked himself. No wonder everything was so blurry; Potter was blind as a fucking bat.

"_Accio_, glasses!" he muttered, extending his hand.

The Weasley girl's fine eyebrows arched slightly but she made no comment as Draco caught the hideous things in his hand, hesitating briefly before putting them on. He felt like a complete wanker, but his vision instantly improved.

"Thanks," he said absently, pocketing Potter's wand. Giving an awkward and hopefully Potter-like wave, he turned towards the nearest exit.

This time the Weasley girl's eyebrows shot all the way up unchecked, but Draco's back was to her and he missed it. He was, however, in prime position to catch the hysterical giggling of the two girls coming down the stairs he'd been about to mount in the assumption of reaching ground level.

"_Harry!_" one of them – Padma Patil's twin, in fact – exclaimed, reproval and elation unmistakable in her voice. "Did you lose something up in the girls' dorm?"

They erupted into simultaneous peals of laughter once again, and Draco, now aware of the redheaded girl's eyes burning into his back, resolved to remain nonchalant.

"You know, I've always been curious..." he said, glancing in the direction of the stairs and turning to give them a small wink. "I was hoping one of you ladies might be willing to show me around."

"_Harry Potter!_" Lavender Brown squealed, flushing with pleasure and perhaps true abashment. They burst into giggles once again, and Draco stepped aside to let them pass, inclining his head slightly.

The girls went off arm in arm, whispering to each other and turning to shoot what could only be described as simultaneously calculating and embarrassed looks in his direction. Draco observed covertly as they exited through the back of a portrait frame hanging on the opposite wall. Aha.

"Harry! You're back!...And what in Merlin's name was _that_ about?" demanded a female voice from behind him.

Draco turned to find the always anxious-looking Hermione Granger, arms full of books and shock written all over her features.

Great. _Her. _

What was her problem?

As far as he knew, Granger and Weasel were some kind of an item, so it wasn't like she had any actual claim on Potter. And yet here she was, glaring at Draco, the fact that she condemned his actions plain as day. Even Weasley was glaring at him. Jeez, what was wrong with these women?

"You've been acting so strangely lately, Harry, I swear..." Granger was saying.

"Listen,Gr—her..._Her-mione!_ Her-mione," he said quickly, managing to stumble both times on the name, "it's not like I'm _marrying_ those skanks or something, I was was just trying to be nice."

Granger and Weasley stared at him, their mouths all but hanging open.

Right.

Draco decided that this meeting had gone on long enough. "Well... I'm starving. Later, witches." He made to walk in the direction of the portrait, but Granger's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Harry, calm down. We're all starving. I've been in the library since this morning and haven't had a chance to – "

Draco, who hated being told to "calm down" when he was calm already, felt a flicker of irritation as the girl went on to describe her morning's itinerary. He tuned out the annoying bint.

He had a sense of urgency, a need to get out of Gryffindor territory. And did this Mudblood seriously expect him to hang out with her while he was stuck here?

" – and then Professor Snape gave me double detention, which I deserve, seeing as I was out of bed at an inappropriate time, but I – "

"– Well if we're all starving, how about we run along then?" Draco cut in impatiently.

The girls exchanged looks before looking back at him. More than Granger's obvious surprise, the intent way the Weasley girl's eyes were fixed on him made him feel unnerved.

Was there something distinctly un-Potter-like in the things he'd said? Draco realized he'd have to pay more attention to these small interactions. So far he'd been earning himself a lot of odd looks from the women. Perhaps he should...calm down.

**OOO**

Several people greeted "Harry" as they made their way to the Great Hall, and Draco managed to not roll his eyes at their obvious sucking up. He had to admit he'd had no idea Potter was so popular.

The Gryffindor girls walked beside him, not engaging in any type of chatter amongst themselves. Draco, who was used to the Slytherin girls' incessant babbling when in confidence, found this odd. Maybe they weren't close?

"Where have you been, anyway?" Granger asked him in hushed tones. She turned her body as if she intended for the Weasley girl not to hear, though the girl in question was walking right beside them.

"I can't tell you," Draco murmured, his eyes wandering from face to face. He wasn't sure what exactly he was looking for, but he felt nervous, expectant.

They arrived at the Gryffindor table and he seated himself at what he knew was Potter's usual place, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. It was unnerving to not sit at his own table, at his own place. This whole thing was exactly that: unnerving.

Draco scanned the Slytherin table from where he sat, but no one important was there.

"Have some cantaloupe," Granger said from beside him, holding out a platter.

"I hate that," he said automatically, wrinkling his nose against the particular odor; no amount of good breeding could keep him from expressing his various degrees of disdain towards certain foods. He was, in a word, _picky._

"What? Since when?" Granger said, laughing her annoying little laugh. "You love cantaloupe! It's your favorite..."

Draco stared at the pale, unappetizing fruit. The smell of it always made him faintly nauseous.

"It's very fresh," she continued, spearing a few pieces and dumping them on his plate.

"Merlin's pants, woman. Keep to your own plate, will you?" he snapped, scanning the Slytherin table once more.

"Harry, you need to eat," Granger said with finality, ignoring his request and serving him more cantaloupe. "You're so cranky lately..."

"Yeah, Harry," the Weasley girl interjected, spoon in hand, "are you on your period again?"

"Really, Ginny!" Granger snorted.

Draco glared at the pretty redhead, who was sitting on the other side of Granger. Her spoon hung in mid-air and again her brown eyes were on his, questioning.

He automatically thought of a dozen different comebacks, all of which involved comments on her hair, her family name, her poverty and her lack of class – all of which would have immediately denounced him for what he was. He held his tongue.

Pretending to ignore her once again – which was completely consistent with Potter's behavior, he thought darkly – Draco turned back to the Slytherin table.

He couldn't have explained why, but all the while he was half dreading the moment when he would see himself come in and take his place at the table – he hadn't allowed the thought to take proper shape in his mind, but the fear of it was there, pulsing underneath the surface of his consciousness.

And finally it happened... There it was; his body. Tall, lean, impeccably dressed in gray slacks and a black turtleneck jumper. His white-blond hair was sleeked back away from his face. His fine, handsome features were arranged into an expression of indifference, and his movements were poised; he carried himself with a careless sort of grace.

Several thoughts surfaced in Draco's mind – the first, the more prominent, was the instant understanding of something he had somehow known all along; that was Harry Potter there, in a Draco suit. Somehow they had been exchanged.

Beneath that shocking certainty was the sudden realization of how much he resembled Lucius. His face, young and angular, was softened by Narcissa's contribution, which was evident in the large eyes and the full, shapely lips; soft, pleasing shapes in an otherwise sharply defined profile.

All that remained was a blueprint of Lucius Malfoy, as if he'd been commissioned to be a miniature scale rendition of the man, only to fully develop into him later. He was of a lighter build than his father, but there was something about the elegant, broad shoulders that hinted that perhaps in time he would become well muscled and imposing in the same way his father was now.

Was this what he really looked like to others, he wondered? Was this really him?

He was certainly very handsome – he'd been made conscious of that fact long ago. But he also looked like a bloody prick, arrogance clear in every gesture, every movement. He had not decided to be this way, not consciously, at least. It suited him.

And who else could it be but Harry Potter himself occupying the body, making it move and speak and bring the goblet to its lips. Draco didn't know how he knew, but he was willing to bet his life on that fact.

Potter seemed to be doing marvelously, and Draco wondered if the Gryffindor had studied him. He wondered if he was enjoying it.

Did this mean that he was behind this somehow?

Potter had stubbornly refused to look in his direction so far, but he would. He would have to, Draco knew. He would wonder. He would want to see for himself that Draco was indeed there, that he had kept the secret. That he hadn't done anything rash, like owl his parents, like owl the Dark Lord, perhaps.

Potter knew. They both did.

And then it happened: his own slate gray eyes gazed at him coldly from across the room, and Draco felt a shiver run down his spine.

_Yes, I'm here, you bastard._

It was Potter who broke eye contact, turning the blond head a fraction so that his own body would no longer be in his line of sight.

For a moment Draco considered doing something rash, like gouging one of Potter's eyes out with the butter knife. Like owling the Malfoy estate.

And yet he knew he would do no such thing. For the moment, Draco Malfoy sat at the Gryffindor table, his hand gripping a piece of plain toast, and quietly seethed.

**OOO**

He'd posted a note to "Draco Malfoy" after breakfast using a nondescript barn owl, but had so far received no replies. Beyond that, there was nothing for him to do but wait; Potter had retreated into Slytherin, and there was no way Draco could follow in this body.

He had managed to shrug off Potter's friends during most of the day by hiding in the library and grounds, but he couldn't run forever.

"How about a round of Wizard's Chess, Harry?" Weasley asked hopefully, glancing up from his parchment.

"No," Draco snapped, not bothering to look at him.

He now sat in one of the surprisingly comfortable armchairs in the Gryffindor common room, head thrown back against the headrest, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

The redhead had come to collect him from his most recent hiding place – Potter's canopy bed – where he had entrenched himself to consider his options, and demanded that he joined them in the common room.

Fearful of appearing even more out of character, Draco had let himself be towed along. He could still sulk in the common room, he found; nobody appeared to be particularly surprised.

"Harry, aren't you going to work on that Potions essay due Monday?" Granger inquired, looking up from her own work.

Draco ignored her, fixing his eyes on the cheerfully burning fire. For the hundredth time, his mind turned over his current situation from every possible angle. The fact remained his options were few; Blaise Zabini was by far the only person he could come close to trusting in Slytherin, and confiding in him regarding this predicament was completely out of the question; Slytherin was Slytherin, you never knew what people would use against you. The stakes were simply too high.

He was on his own in this, and he had no idea what to do.

In truth, there was no one he could turn to – especially not his parents. Draco never thought he'd ever feel so completely and utterly alone.

"Hey," a voice said, tearing him out of his thoughts. "Want a chocolate frog?"

It was one of those mousy photographer brothers, something or other Creevey. Small and thin, the boy stood before him with a wan smile, a still wrapped chocolate frog on his outstretched hand.

Draco stared up at him, unmoved.

"_No."_

The boy's face fell, and Draco felt a perverse sort of satisfaction.

"Can I have it, Dennis?" the Weasley girl said gently.

Draco glanced past the Creevey boy's, his eyes once again clashing with hers. She was looking at him almost accusingly from where sat with her parchments, her bright hair reflecting the light of the fire as if it too were made of flames.

The Slytherin would have smirked at her, but there was something about the way she was looking at him that he found disconcerting. Once again choosing to ignore her, he turned away and stared at the flickering flames.

**OOO**

_Harry, we love you. We believe in you!_ read the note a Hufflepuff had pressed into his hand. _You can do it!_

Draco stared at the childish scrawls before crumpling the piece of paper.

He was into his second day in Potter's body without a clue as to how he'd gotten there or how he would get out.

He'd gotten up early in order to avoid Potter's friends, but that meant he hadn't seen himself at breakfast either. What was worse, his maneuver hadn't worked. It seemed the remaining two thirds of the Dream Team were intent on keeping tabs on him – Draco wasn't surprised when he encountered Weasley and Granger waiting for him at the end of the corridor.

"Are you coming to Hogsmeade or not?" Weasley demanded, blocking his way.

"_Or not_," Draco retorted shortly, sidestepping Weasley easily and ignoring the brown-haired girl beside him as he walked by.

"Wait!" she snapped, turning on her heel and following after him. "I'm tired of this, Harry! We have to talk."

"_I'M NOT YOUR PRECIOUS HARRY! DROP DEAD, YOU SILLY BINT!"_ he wanted to scream in her face, but managed to keep walking in the direction of the pitch.

"Harry!" she exclaimed, grabbing him by the sleeve and causing him to come to a standstill. "I'm talking to you! What's going-"

"ARGH! LEAVE ME BE!" Draco shouted, releasing himself from her grip. He so seldom raised his voice that to do so now felt exhilarating and tremendously wrong all at once.

Granger stared at him in shock. Her eyes looked enormous, gleaming with anger and sorrow.

"Don't shout at her," Weasley said in a low voice, placing himself between Draco and Granger. They stared at each other for a moment, until Draco realized it was time to capitulate.

"I apologize," he murmured, breathing deeply in an effort to calm himself.

Granger was blinking rapidly, looking everywhere but at him.

"Would you both please...I'll speak to you when I'm ready." He didn't wait for their reply before turning and continuing on his way.

He stepped outside and automatically headed in the direction of the Quidditch pitch, grateful for the cool air of early fall that filled his lungs, the crunch of dry leaves beneath Potter's sneakers, the open space and the absence of humans to be careful of.

It was a fine day, chill with the promise of winter, crisp and sunny with the sun blazing overhead. Without even thinking of it he broke into a light run, leaving the trail behind and choosing to pick his own path on the bright green grass of the lawns that led to the pitch. He circled around, running effortlessly, feeling the muscles of this body respond to his command.

That bastard Potter was fit, no doubt; Draco had barely broken into a sweat. He imagined the Dark Lord running laps around the pitch and snorted.

When he reached the pitch Draco saw that there were others here already. Judging by the bright red banner of hair waving in the cool breeze, it was the Weasley girl up on one of the brooms. She watched as Romilda Vane and Euan Abercrombie, also Chasers for Gryffindor, did rolls on their brooms.

"Romi, lean in on the right turn," Weasley was calling out, just as she spotted Draco.

Their eyes met briefly, but they did not acknowledge each other.

"Hey, Harry!" called Vane, coming out of one of her rolls.

"Further in on your right turn," Draco snapped, for indeed the Weasley girl was right – she was coming up short.

He continued to jog easily, effortlessly, enjoying the demand on his muscles, the way his lungs moved air in and out. Occasionally he would look up, and he saw that the Chasers continued to work on their exercises under the supervision of Weasley, who would occasionally demonstrate a move.

She was _good_. There was no doubt about it. Great, even. She was every bit as good as her brothers had been, the formidable Weasley twins. Quidditch was the only thing the Weasleys could command respect in, he mused.

Watching her, Draco felt like flying, felt like mounting a broom and kicking up, up, up. He decided to do just that. Jogging up to the broom shack, he opened it an examined what was available to him. The broom in best condition was a Comet 260, by far inferior to his Firebolt, but it would have to do.

Draco mounted and took to the sky, feeling the same vague elation he'd experienced many years before, the first time he'd ever gotten on a broom. The feeling had never faded for him.

He flew in a wide, fast arch around the pitch, faster and faster until the cold wind burned his cheeks and his eyes watered. For the first time in what felt like ages he was able to forget his predicament, if only for the moment.

"Oi! How about a game?" called Abercrombie eagerly, bringing Draco out of his reverie.

He looked back at the group, noticing the way the Weasley girl's eyes were on him. What a curious way to look at someone; it was as if she were seeing him for the first time, almost as if she were waiting to be introduced.

It's true, he had exchanged a manner of charged glances with her over the years – in a way, there was an unspoken little something between them that Draco would never have admitted to out loud. But as she had no way of knowing this was him now, in all probability her covert glances were because she'd never gotten over her well-publicized crush on Potter in her first year.

In that case, Draco surprised himself thinking, she really was a twit and Potter was more of an idiot than he'd initially assumed.

Breaking eye contact with the redhead, he hovered opposite the Gryffindors now. "Girls against boys?"

This was fair, he knew. Romilda Vane was a better flyer than Abercrombie.

"Fine." Weasley replied.

She gracefully swooped down to the ground, where the box with the Quidditch gear awaited. Picking out a Quaffle and a Bludger, and tossed the bats to the other Gryffindors and the Quaffle to Draco.

"Think you can handle being a Chaser?" she shot at him, as he caught the Quaffle in one hand.

Draco smirked. He enjoyed being Chaser much more than Seeker. And, if he was honest with himself, he was better at it too. Weasley wouldn't know what hit her.

**OOO**

"Are you sure you can walk?" he inquired, looking at her doubtfully.

A bump the size of an ostrich egg was growing on the side of her forehead. She looked like crap, in all honesty.

The girl attempted a nod, but she staggered and her right hand went up to her forehead.

Draco arched a brow. "Hop on my broom," he commanded, and after a second of hesitation she complied, wobbling slightly.

"I'm so sorry, Ginny!" Abercrombie said for the fifth time, "I didn't mean to, I didn't expect it to clip you on the head like that..."

Draco snorted.

"Put this stuff away," he instructed the Gryffindors, slipping easily into the familiar role of Quidditch captain. "I'll fly her to the infirmary."

He turned to look at the still dazed girl perched on the broom behind him. Her brown eyes met his before he looked away, turning to face the front again.

"Weasley, put your arms around me like you've always wanted. Can't have you falling off."

"_Excuse_ me – " she began hotly, but was silenced as he abruptly kicked up. Her hands immediately snaked around his waist.

Draco smirked.

He'd enjoyed himself immensely, there was no denying. It had been so long since he'd just played Quidditch. Nothing to lose or gain, just play – and with a worthy adversary, at that. She played like a man, this one did. She gave it her all and there was no need to hold back, to be gentle. Heck, if he tried any of that stuff she'd fly circles around him with her eyes closed.

"You're a good flyer," he said quietly, and she was silent for so long that Draco thought the wind might have carried his words away. He didn't know why he'd gone and said that, anyway.

"Why _Harry_," she murmured finally, just as quietly, "you make it sound like you've never been Chaser to me before."

Draco took in her words in silence, narrowing his eyes slightly. He would have turned to look into her face, had he not known he'd find her eyes, like twin pools of the lightest amber, calmly gazing back at him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** So this was a slow-ish chapter, but we're setting up for the action that's coming up. Hang in there!

A big thank you to everyone who's reviewed and added this story to their favorites and alerts, you guys are awesome :D


	3. Kissed

**Chapter 3: Kissed**

As if the status, the looks, the money, the girls, the clothes and the almost suffocating luxury of his daily surroundings wasn't enough, it turned out Draco Malfoy was hung like a goddamned Hippogriff.

"Of course," Harry muttered, rolling his eyes. "Bloody wanker."

He shook himself and zipped up, pausing to wash his hands in the basin. He caught a quick glance of Malfoy's face in the mirror as he lathered his hands. He avoided looking at the mirror as he performed his ablutions in the morning—it was unnerving to have those pale eyes on him, cold as two pieces of lead—but now he met their silver glare head on. He'd have to get through much worse if he expected this to work.

Seeing Malfoy in his own body continued to be quite a shock each time, though he thought he'd been prepared for it. Fortunately his day had involved zero interaction with Gryffindor so far; Harry didn't think he was quite ready to face his friends from behind Draco Malfoy's face.

"Are you dueling tonight?"

The lead gray eyes scanned the room in the reflection of the mirror. It was Theodore Nott, a Slytherin in Malfoy's year. Harry had seen him with the blond a few times, and assumed they were on good terms.

"No," he replied shortly, looking at himself in the mirror rather than at Nott. He had, of course, no idea what duel the Slytherin was referring to.

"That's too bad. You're the best, Malfoy. Who are you betting on?" Nott inquired, coming up to one of the urinals.

Harry said nothing, drying his hands on one of the green towels.

"I'm for Pucey," Nott continued conversationally, as his urine pattered against the porcelain of the urinal. "Montague has looked rather well lately, though."

Harry snorted at the mention of Montague, an idiot and a lousy Quidditch player, in his opinion.

"Hmmm," Nott murmured. "Perhaps you're right. Still, he'll provide for a good match, I should hope. The others are all amateurs."

Harry finished drying his hands and turned away. He didn't acknowledge Nott before he left the restroom.

Outside a group of Slytherin girls waited for him – Daphne Greengrass included.

Harry gave her a furtive glance. Images of their encounter that first morning flashed in his mind, his eyes naturally flitting to certain parts of her anatomy. He felt his cheeks burning and quickly averted his gaze. Without sparing the girls another glance he strode ahead, and they hastened to catch up.

"Draco! Wait!" Pansy Parkinson called out, running him down and slipping her arm through his.

Harry resisted a shudder and let himself be towed along.

Pansy Parkinson wasn't ugly, necessarily. In fact, physically she was quite good looking if you ignored her slightly upturned nose. There was something in her personality, however, which made her most unattractive. The same could hold true for most of the girls in this House, Harry thought.

He had to admit he felt more comfortable among the men of Slytherin, whom he could openly treat with a muted sort of disdain. The women, however, he had no idea what to do with.

Unfortunately, there was no help for it; Malfoy was a bloody pimp and appeared to always have a flock of Slytherin girls fawning around him.

But who was to say the women didn't have their uses?

One of the objectives of this exercise was to gain information, and they could certainly provide it. His eyes strayed towards the delicate form of Daphne Greengrass once more. Her green-blue eyes met his, darted away. Looked back.

Harry held her gaze. This time, he didn't blush.

**OOO**

On Sunday afternoon just before dinner, Draco Malfoy walked down the deserted corridor of the fourth floor west wing. He had no particular destination in mind, really he just wanted some privacy.

He'd dropped Ginny Weasley off at the infirmary, sharing a brief but charged look with her before he'd flown off. What could she mean by looking at him like that? Surely she couldn't have figured out that...

There was so much to wonder about, and no clue as to when he'd get any answers. Still no reply from Potter, and he was beginning to wonder if he'd reply at all.

Turning a corner, Draco kept to what he knew were the less transited areas of this wing. He had no idea what would happen if he encountered the remaining two-thirds of the Golden Trio alone again, and he wasn't anxious to find out. More than that, he was tired of being accosted by people, of being questioned, encouraged, confronted. Being the Chosen One was no cake walk... No wonder Potter had switched bodies with him.

As Draco listened to the sounds of his own footsteps against the marble of the floor, he had the feeling that he was not quite alone.

He pretended not to notice that he was being followed, all the while covertly glancing at the reflection of the glass windows. The golden light of the setting sun gleamed dazzlingly, but he was able to make out a quick flash of red hair.

It was the Weasley girl.

She was quite adept at this, he noted; anyone who wasn't used to being stalked probably wouldn't have picked up on her presence at all. But he _was_ Draco Malfoy, after all, and he knew a thing or two about being tailed by random females.

He smirked to himself.

The spell aimed at his head caught him by surprise, and he barely had time to deflect it. A second later Potter's wand was in his hand, the Shielding Charm casting a field around him. He turned in time to catch her next incantation: _Petrificus Totalus._

Draco dodged this one with ease, years of sparring with far more powerful wizards coming to his aid even in this strange body.

"_Expelliarmus!_" he countered, already swinging his wand in an arc for the next spell. Even now he was mindful of his form, the concept of grace having been drilled into his skull by Lucius.

She evaded as he expected, but was caught off guard by his next hit.

"_Mobilicorpus!_"

He pointed his wand at her, then at himself.

With a gasp the girl was lifted off the ground, struggling in vain against the magnetic force that flung her towards Draco. The Slytherin opened his arms as she crashed into his chest, catching her and holding her small form to him. A moment later he had ripped her wand from her hands; it clattered to the ground.

"_Finite_," he grunted, putting an end to the spell.

Grabbing her roughly by the arms Draco drove her back into the wall with far more force than he'd intended. Her back and the stone of the wall met with a hard smack, and her body was propelled forward into his with the momentum. He stilled her with his own body, his hands still vice-like around her thin wrists.

"_What_ is your problem, Weasley?" he demanded, his eyes intent on her wide brown ones. They were round with disbelief, and Draco realized that the use of her family name had shocked her more than the physical roughness with which he was handling her.

He would deny. He would deny until the end. She had no proof, and no one would believe her. What's more, she might not even be certain of what she had unearthed.

"Who are you?" she demanded, narrowing her eyes.

On second thought...

Draco stared at her for a moment, taking in the flush of her cheeks, the defiance of her raised chin. Was it possible to neutralize her through logic alone? Was he willing to Obliviate her if that failed?

_Yes._

"Ginny..." he said softly, in Potter's quiet voice,"Gin, I'm sorry. I've been under a lot of stress lately... I know I haven't really been myself lately."

His hands were still wrapped around her wrists, their chests pressed close together so that he could feel her breasts heave with every breath.

She looked up at him in silence, her brown eyes unyielding, never giving anything away.

Draco prided himself in his ability to read people, but here was someone he'd so far been unable to figure out. Looking into her eyes, he realized he had no idea what she could be thinking.

"I'm sorry," he said again, releasing her wrists. "What on earth did you throw at me?"

She blushed, and covered up by rubbing her wrists. "Levicorpus."

They were no longer touching but remained in close proximity. Up this close he could see her, really see her face. The bump on her head and accompanying bruises were gone after her visit with Madam Pomfrey. Her plump lips were pressed into a tight line, her golden eyes still her dominant feature. He could see there were flecks of green in them.

"It was a good try," he conceded. "But when you throw a curse at someone, you have to really mean it."

Her blush deepened. "I don't need lessons from you," she snapped, clearly stung that she'd been bested.

"Yes, I can see you're doing just fine on your own..." Draco raised an eyebrow.

She scowled.

"Why did you attack me?"

"I didn't _attack_ you... I just... I wanted to talk to you..."

The Slytherin snorted and opened his mouth to speak, but her next words silenced him.

"You're not Harry," she said firmly.

Draco blinked. "Why not?" he demanded. Inside his chest, his heart pounded like a hammer.

The Weasley girl glared. "Harry doesn't go around insulting his friends like you do," she informed him. "Harry doesn't fly or play Quidditch like you do... Harry... doesn't look at people the way you do."

"And what way is that, pray?" he murmured, disguising his surprise.

His eyes bore down on hers and she blushed, but didn't look away.

"You're Draco Malfoy," she stated. "I don't know how you did this, but I know it."

Draco felt his stomach flop. He didn't know what was more shocking: being outsmarted by this girl, or hearing his name on her lips.

"Draco Malfoy was at breakfast today. Didn't you see him?"

"Yes," she replied firmly. "I saw him. He was sitting at my table."

"Ginny," he said softly, "I think you've hit your head pretty hard-"

"Don't call me that, _Malfoy_." Her tone was sharp.

"Don't call me Malfoy," he ground out between his teeth.

"It _is _a rather stupid sounding last name, but it's yours and you should accept it, don't you think?"

Draco snorted. Variations of '_This from a _Weasley?' and '_Do you really think that with hair like that you ought to be insulting anybody?'_ ready to fly out of his lips, but he held himself in check. Just because he was in the body of a stupid Gryffindor didn't mean he had to act like one.

"If I were Malfoy, would it be smart to bait me like this, Ginevra?"

Her golden eyes widened. "How do you know my name?"

"I'm Harry freaking Potter, that's how," he said dryly. The truth was more complex than that, but there was no need for her to know. "Listen, if this is some novel approach to seduction –"

"– Harry doesn't use words like 'novel', Malfoy," the redhead scoffed.

"Stop calling me that! Are you daft?"

"_You're_ daft if you think you'll get away with this for much longer," she informed him. "Have a two minute conversation with Hermione or even Ron on a day they're not acting like Hufflepuffs and they'll see through you like _that._" She snapped her fingers in his face demonstratively. "They're not as stupid as they look."

Draco stared. "Listen... I have no idea what you're talking about," he said firmly. Then he picked up her wand, handing it to her hilt first.

She accepted it, her eyes going from the wand to his.

"How did you do this? How did you two switch bodies? Or is Harry in someone else?"

_Deny, deny, deny!_

"I don't know _what _you're talking about," he said imperiously. And then his expression softened. "Really... I have no idea."

And this last part, at least, was the truth.

**OOO**

Harry descended into the Slytherin common room flanked by Malfoy's posse. Crabbe and Goyle, who had grown to the size of small cars since the last time Harry had stood next to them, were to his left and right respectively. Pansy Parkinson was draped on him like an old rag.

He wrapped his arm around her waist as he'd seen Malfoy do dozens of times, but his eyes sought a head of brown curls.

They'd spent a lot of their weekend together, Malfoy's so-called friends and Harry. He hadn't been surprised to discover that alliances here were frail, relationships superficial and guarded. He wondered now if this was what Malfoy felt all the time: as if he were playing someone else.

He let Parkinson guide him to their seats, two green leather chairs set in a prominent part of the room. The furniture, he noticed, had been rearranged into a circular formation, leaving space for a long row of tables in the center, presumably for the duelists to face each other on.

Harry seated himself in a manner that conveyed a lazy sort of elegance – a lot of playing Malfoy involved forcing his body to learn to relax. Malfoy never looked anxious or tense. Malfoy never looked expectant. Malfoy never looked anything more than bored or indifferent, or vaguely amused, at best.

_Prick._

To Harry's surprise, instead of seating herself next to him, Pansy Parkinson plopped comfortably onto his lap. His body stiffened in response, and he willed himself to relax once more.

"Should be a good one tonight," Zabini observed, slipping into the seat beside Harry's.

He was dressed all in black, in much the same manner as Harry had dressed Malfoy's body. His soft curls were tousled around his dark face in a becoming way and his long, slanted eyes sparkled with something like amusement. Zabini's full lips were permanently curved into a haughty half grin, which unlike Malfoy's trademark smirk was devoid of any real unpleasantness.

Looking at him now, Harry recalled once hearing Hermione remark that he was "not bad looking". He supposed she was right.

"Are you up tonight?" the raven-haired Slytherin inquired, pouring liquid from a flask into two glasses.

"No," Harry said simply, accepting one of the glasses from him.

"Shame."

"Yeah, Drakie-poo. Shame," Pansy parroted, wiggling in his lap.

Harry turned to her. Without giving his action prior thought, he lifted his knee and tipped her over. She gave an indignant squawk, but a glance of Malfoy's ice-gray eyes was enough to keep her at bay.

Zabini snickered beside him.

Harry sat back comfortably, taking a sip from the golden liquid in his glass – it burned all the way down his throat. He resisted gagging and watched as the first duelists of the night mounted the improvised stage.

Two duels were fought quickly, with barely a reaction from the crowd. Harry thought they'd been good enough, but no one seemed to pay them much attention; the buzz of conversation carried continuously until it was time for the main event.

Adrian Pucey and Rodolphus Montague, who were both members of the Slytherin Quidditch team, mounted the stage to a complete halt in all conversations. People sat up in their chairs, and suddenly the air itself seemed charged with electricity as the two saluted each other and squared off, wands drawn. Money quickly changed hands, and excited whispers fluttered like leaves among those gathered.

The duelists circled each other.

Harry thought of his duel with Malfoy earlier that year.

He'd been good – No, he'd been great. Being honest, if it hadn't been for his efforts in the D.A., Harry probably wouldn't have stood a chance. So this is where the wanker gained his practice. Weekends in the Slytherin common room.

On the dueling arena, light flashed from a wand and was deflected by the slight movement of another. The audience stirred.

Small gasps and faint swearing could be heard now and then, as the duelists continued to fling hexes at each other. For the most part the audience was silent; there was surprisingly potent Dark Magic in the air.

Harry's eyes roved over the crowd once again, but the face he sought was not to be found. And suddenly there she was, slipping onto his lap gracefully, bearing the fragrance of fresh jasmine. Without giving him a chance to react, she curled in his lap and sought his mouth, driving her tongue in between his lips.

The sweetness of her kiss mingled with the burn of the firewhisky and danced on his tongue. All considerations of the fact that she was Slytherin, that they were in public – that she was kissing Draco Malfoy and not him – dissolved as her tongue intertwined with his.

It took Harry a second to realize that he was hungrily kissing her back.

**OOO**

It was hardly fair that the Slytherins each got their own room, but it certainly made things easier – that and the fact that as a Malfoy and a Slytherin, the blond had every right to suddenly act aloof and withdrawn from his social circle for no apparent reason.

That was exactly what Harry had done once he'd managed to come up for air, excusing himself from further partaking of the night's entertainment with a brief nod to Zabini and a brush of his fingers against Daphne's cheek.

Gaining reentry into Malfoy's room had proven to be a bit of a challenge at first. The door was protected, he'd quickly discovered. After standing there for ten minutes rattling off stupidities like '_pure blood_', '_superior_', variations of '_dragon_', '_Draco rulez_' and even '_friend_' – hey, it worked for Frodo – a frustrated Harry discovered that _Alohomora_ cast from Malfoy's wand did the trick.

Now alone in Malfoy's quarters, Harry undressed and prepared for bed. He wondered how well Malfoy was faring in the Gryffindor common room.

Well enough, Harry suspected. He had the certainty, the curious gut feeling, that Draco Malfoy – and no one else – would understand. That he would adapt, that he would play along, waiting for his opportunity to reverse what Harry had done. That he would keep the secret.

He wouldn't deliver Harry into the hands of the Dark Lord. He would confide in no one, for Harry suspected that he had much to lose if this were discovered. In short, everything.

Harry's eyes went to the piece of parchment spread on Malfoy's elegant mahogany desk. It was addressed to _"Draco Malfoy"__ – _quotation marks and all.

From where he stood, he could easily make out the time and date detailed in the elegant handwriting. He felt so strange looking at things without the familiar black frame of his glasses as an outline, and yet he didn't need them in the least. His vision was perfect.

**OOO**

Draco was surprised to learn that while in Slytherin significant verbal exchanges were preceded – and interrupted by – frequent scanning of one's surroundings to make sure one wasn't being overheard, in Gryffindor no one actually expected for others to eavesdrop. This made said task infinitely easier to accomplish.

"Harry has been acting weirder than usual, has he not?" Weasel was saying quietly.

From his vantage point outside of one of the common room's entrances, Draco had a limited view of the room, but he could just make out the back of the Weasley girl's outrageously red head and part of her brother's face. He could already tell that the tension in the line of the Weasel King's lips meant that he was extremely worried.

So transparent, these Gryffindors. He could read from them as if from an open book.

All save one.

Ginny Weasley had remained staunch in her belief that he was who he really was and not who he said. Or something like that.

Nothing he'd said following their strange conversation in the deserted hallway had convinced her otherwise.

And to his surprise, he'd let her go – unaltered.

"I know you won't hurt me," she'd said simply, and Draco wondered if that was what made it true.

"Of course not," he'd countered. "I'm Harry bloody Potter; I wouldn't hurt a fly."

But she knew. She _knew_, and by letting her leave with the secret, he'd trusted her, without even deciding to.

Draco brushed stray locks of raven black hair out of his eyes. He waited tensely to see what would develop in the room, ready to level the redheaded girl with a flick of his wand should he need to. He could confound her, maybe modify her memory.

_And then what?_

A heavy silence reigned over the room following Ron Weasley's a sinking feeling, Draco watched as Ginny Weasley finally spoke.

"I've kind of been talking to him," she began, at which her brother raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Harry hasn't really been himself. He's been under a lot of stress lately, Ron," she recited gravely, parroting Draco's exact words to her earlier. "He's going through a lot, and he seems to think that he needs to handle this on his own. I just think you guys need to give him some room..."

Draco stared at the back of her head in disbelief.

Why in Merlin's name had she gone and said that?

He had no way of knowing that at that moment, Ginny Weasley herself couldn't have answered that question.

**OOO**

Last night he'd barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes he would replay his conversation with the Weasley girl, the way she'd covered for him when she thought he couldn't hear. In his mind's eye, Draco could clearly see the look on her face when she'd asked how he knew her name.

_Ginevra._

There was something about her, some associations he'd made with the thought of her long ago, things that had lain under the surface of his consciousness, things he'd never pondered before because there was simply no point. Maybe if things were different...

Taking in a deep breath, Draco willed himself clear his mind of thoughts and stretched his arms wide, letting the last vestiges of sleep evaporate. His muscles longed for the stretch, the particular exertion only exercise could bring.

The sun rose slowly above the pitch, casting strange shadows over familiar shapes, making everything seem somehow more solemn. In the crepuscular light of fall, Draco felt something like peace; he had always liked this time of day.

"Nice, isn't it?" Ginny Weasley's voice said from behind him. "I love this time of day."

Draco stared. She was clad in form-flattering spandex, of all things. Her bright red hair was done up in a loose ponytail, and she was looking up at the tops of the trees, where the sun glimmered gently between the gold and brown leaves.

"What are you doing here?" he challenged, as if she'd attacked him again. Somehow, part of him felt, she had.

"_Harry,_" she replied, dripping sarcasm, "we said we would go jogging together every other morning, remember?"

Draco shrugged noncommittally. "No."

"Well, we did."

He glared at her for a moment, irked that she held his gaze.

"Fine, _Ginny,_" he snapped. "Think you can keep up?" He broke into a light run, and heard her snort for all reply.

A moment later he heard her shoes crunch over the leaves in the path, and before he knew it she was running up beside him.

"So, _Malfoy_ –"

"– Why did you do that?" he cut in, turning his face so he could glare at her again.

He knew his demeanor was childish, but he didn't particularly care. For some reason her presence stirred up a storm inside of him, one he wasn't prepared to deal with.

"Do what?" she inquired, never breaking her stride.

"Why did you lie to your friends for me?"

Ginny opened her mouth to speak and then closed it.

"Well?" he pressed, increasing his pace.

"I didn't do it for _your _sake, you stupid ferret," she said at last, running faster as well.

"Oh? Then why did you do it?" the Slytherin replied, ignoring the barb.

" – So, wait a second," she cut in, smiling slyly. "You're admitting that you're not Harry? That you're Draco Malfoy?"

"I said nothing of the sort," Draco shot back in a clipped tone. "And don't change the subject."

"Never mind why. I just want to understand what's going on."

"That makes two of us," Draco retorted.

Ginny was silent for a while, thinking. All that could be heard was the sound of leaves crunching under their steps, the synchronized rhythm of their labored breathing.

"So you really have no idea how this happened?" she said at last.

Draco shook his head.

"Any theories?"

"Potter knows what happened," he said tightly. "Or did it himself."

Ginny nodded. "I think you're right. Harry has been so weird lately. Disappearing now and then, not talking at all, to anyone. Anyone except Dumbledore. He was up to something, I'm sure of it. Have you contacted him?"

"Yes. _Draco Malfoy _won't return my owls," Draco said bitterly.

The girl beside him snickered. "I'm sure a lot of people have said those words before. _Karma! _What a bitch."

The Slytherin glared at her. Who did this silly girl think she was, anyway?

"You have to talk to them, you know," she said finally, brushing her long hair away from her face as they continued to run.

A moment later she darted past him and the Slytherin increased his pace once more until he was level with her.

"Talk to whom?" Draco said distractedly, trying to ignore the way her firm bum and long thighs were outlined by the material of her jogging pants.

"The Dream Team."

"About what?" He scoffed. "What heroics we could get up to this weekend? No thanks."

He sped away, forcing her to catch up to him.

She did.

They ran a few more laps before she declared she was stopping. Heading off the field she collapsed onto the grass, her hands balled into fists, eyes closed against the early morning sun that filtered through the leaves.

Coming up to where she lay, Draco observed the way her bright red hair contrasted with the vibrant green of the fresh grass.

"Like what you see?"

"Yes," he said simply. He tried to catch his breath as he lay beside her on the ground.

Her face was red from exertion, making it difficult to tell whether she'd blushed or not. She continued to speak as if he hadn't said anything, and Draco let it drop.

"I'm not saying to tell them who you are. I honestly don't think Ron could handle that. But the thing is, Harry's been a total dick to them."

The Slytherin rolled his eyes. "This again?"

"He's completely shut them out," she continued, ignoring him. "He's been talking to Dumbledore again... Whenever Harry goes to him, he ends up becoming really withdrawn for weeks. It's so weird..."

"Well, that's just their fucking problem, isn't it?" Draco said caustically.

"No." Ginny smiled a slow little smile that already the Slytherin beside her had gotten to know meant trouble – mainly for him. "See, _you're_ Harry now, remember? They're not going to leave you alone. EVER. That's _your_ fucking problem."

"Speaking of which..." Draco countered, resting on his elbow and letting his eyes run down her sweaty form. "How about taking Potter out for a ride?"

Ginny's eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing as she turned to stare at him, mirroring his posture.

"Well?" he inquired, lowering his voice. "All that you've always dreamed of – only better, seeing as _I_ will be the one at the controls."

For a moment the girl stared at him in disbelief. And then, to his surprise, she threw her head back – and laughed.

"It is so _weird_ to see Harry trying to be sexy! And you talking about yourself as if you were you and Harry at the same time! Gah! Don't be gross, Malfoy."

Draco looked dumbfounded. "_Trying _to be sexy? And what do you mean, _don't be gross_? It's not like he's hideous."

"You're defending Harry's looks now?" she asked incredulously.

"No, of course not! But it's been three days I've been in this body. What am I supposed to be, some kind of bloody monk?"

"Goodness! Three whole days!" Ginny exclaimed, rolling onto her back again. "How can you live?"

The Slytherin gave her flat, Quidditch toned midriff a very sidelong glance and asked himself the same thing.

"Malfoy," she said suddenly, narrowing her eyes. "Why are you doing this? Why are you here pretending to be Harry when you could be marching his body straight up to Mordor, or wherever it is that You-Know-Who lives? Why haven't you told your parents, or something?"

"Weasley," Draco said calmly, glaring right back, "in order to march Potter's body into You-Know-Who's house, I first have to be back in my _own_ body, don't you think?"

Ginny pressed her lips together tightly, golden eyes flashing. "So that's it, then, is it? Once you get your body back..."

"Don't be stupid," Draco said dismissively. "Once I have my body back I'm done with you people. Let Potter fulfill his stupid destiny... I'd be glad if he did. If someone takes down the Dark Lord I can probably get a job playing Quidditch, or something."

Ginny stared at him in poorly disguised bafflement. Draco Malfoy wasn't exactly what she'd been expecting.

"Now," the Slytherin said, staring up into the canopy of golden leaves under which they lay, "tell me more about Potter being weird. I have to figure out a way to deal with the Dream Team."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Thanks so much to everyone who's taken the time to leave such lovely feedback. You make me very happy. ^_^


	4. Embraced

**Chapter 4: Embraced**

From a cursory inspection of her features, Granger was not a girl one would ever call pretty. Upon first sight her face was dominated by plainness from every aspect. Her mouth, her nose, her chin, the line of her jaw were all unremarkable; her facial features were without tragedies or glories. They simply were.

She was, in a word, _plain_.

But then one reached her eyes, and here one found pause. Her eyes were extraordinary not by their color or shape – they were not pretty unto themselves, and their shade of brown was entirely unremarkable. No, what made them so distinctive was their sheer size. They were huge, and _pleading_. They were not eyes one could easily look away from, standing this close.

How had he never noticed? Perhaps because her face had never held more than contempt and determined indifference towards his person.

In any case now Draco found he was unable to tear his eyes away from her warm brown ones.

Here, he thought, was the tragedy, here the glory. And when she looked at one in such a way, and she spoke with such conviction, her face became transformed under the freshness of her candor. She was almost painful to look at, like a lost puppy on a street corner, he concluded.

And now he felt the urge to give her a halfhearted pat on the shoulder before continuing on his way.

"Harry..._Please_," she said, her eyes glassy with unshed tears, "let us help. Let us help you. You're not alone in this." Her small hand found his, clasped it.

"No one can help me," Draco stated simply, squeezing her hand briefly before letting it drop. "This falls on me. On me alone."

There. Did that sound Potter-ish?

"What did Dumbledore say to you?" Weasley demanded. "You haven't been yourself since you talked to him. Will it happen soon? Will you go?"

"I can't tell you that, Ron," Draco evaded.

"Bloody hell!" the red-haired boy exploded, his face flushed with anger. "We've been through everything together! How can you expect us to hang back _now_?"

Draco turned his eyes on Potter's best friend, recalling that this was the person he'd chosen to save during the Triwizard Tournament. Here then, was Potter's most prized possession.

A smirk, even a small one at this point would be disastrous, but Draco could feel his lips twitch.

"Ron," he said slowly, "I've always known there was a time when I'd have to go it alone. This is something which I must do. I didn't ask for it, I wish I didn't have to, but I do."

"But not alone!" the redhead protested again.

"I don't want to die," Draco murmured, Granger's reaction every reassurance that his words were reaching their target.

Even Weasley looked like he was ready to break into sobs at any moment.

Draco suppressed a snort.

And yet, he quietly admitted to himself, there was no point in pretending that he wasn't almost...enjoying this. To be so noble, to play the part of the doomed hero who simply cannot, will not, escape his fate. To speak such words, to see the liquid adoration in the eyes of these people... it was beautiful, in a way.

To play the noble martyr...

He could almost believe it. He wondered, briefly, if Potter did.

"I don't want to die," he repeated, more firmly now. "But if I have to, I will. And I won't risk that happening to you." His eyes, which he knew would be bright green as emeralds, went from one to the other.

He had their full attention and he knew it.

"I'm sorry... from now on I'm alone in this."

A heavy silence descended over the room. Draco wondered what would happen next. He'd anticipated another argument with Ginny's brother, maybe tears from Granger...

The last thing he expected was for the brown-haired girl to launch herself into his chest. She buried her face in his neck, wrapping her arms around his body tightly.

Disconcerted, Draco had the presence of mind to raise his arms and wrap them around her in turn.

_I can't believe I'm hugging Hermione Granger_, he thought, aware of the warm, wet tears that were spilling on his neck.

A moment later she tore herself away from him, and ran from the room.

**OOO**

Sundays in Slytherin were for sleeping in, Harry quickly discovered. He'd woken early as was his custom, wandering out into the common room and later the Great Hall, but no one from his House seemed to be up.

Grabbing some fruit from the table, he'd gone back to his quarters, deciding to settle back into bed. Malfoy had replaced all of the standard-issue Hogwarts furniture with his own, and the king-sized bed was no exception. It was the most comfortable Harry had ever laid in, the fluffy feather pillows felt like clouds. In a bed like this, it was easy to let yourself drift off to sleep...

The rustle of fabric against the stone floor made Harry's eyes flip open. Instantly his hand went to his wand, and he sat up expectantly. He was surprised to find the scantily clad form of Daphne Greengrass, green-blue eyes fixed on his wand. She had draped a strip of white cloth around one of her shoulders, and her soft brown curls tumbled over the other. The rest of her was...bare.

"What are you doing here?" Harry demanded, struggling to keep his eyes on her face.

She smiled for all answer, and padded barefoot up to the foot of the bed.

_What changed?_

She wasn't scared anymore, he noted, alarmed by the way she crawled up on the bed, like a cat on all fours.

Harry gulped.

_YOU_ _changed, you wanker,_ he thought, as she snaked her way up his legs. _Malfoy probably doesn't give her the time of day when they're with everyone else. __YOU __kept... looking. _

And how the hell had she gotten in?

"Your wand works on my door?" he murmured in Malfoy's cool baritone.

"Yes," she said proudly, sitting up. "You wanted it to."

Harry stared. Did that mean that she was the flavor of the month?

Judging by the way she was straddling him, placing his hands on either side of her bare hips, she sure seemed to think so.

**OOO**

Later that week, Draco met with Ginny Weasley on the pitch.

His first days of class as a Gryffindor passed without incident; Potter's courageous friends had become more subdued after that overtly dramatic conversation, finally giving Draco room to breathe. Following a certain redhead's advice, the Slytherin was being diplomatic about the whole thing, treating them with a certain care and politeness he would never have afforded them under different circumstances.

More important than domestic harmony to his peace of mind, however, was the fact that Potter had no common classes with Slytherin today. He had Double Potions tomorrow, he knew, but he'd worry about crossing that bridge when he got to it. For now, no Potions or Herbology meant he'd only had to see his own face during meals.

Potter had been ignoring him completely, and had so far refused to answer his owls.

_Wanker! _Draco thought, with a flare of irritation.

He flew lazily around the pitch, waiting for Ginny to arrive. Their morning jogs had turned into routine, but he had to admit he felt a tingle of excitement at the prospect of seeing her again; they'd barely had a chance to speak since this morning. He was surprised at how easy it was to talk to her, how quickly he'd grown comfortable in her presence; as comfortable as he could be, anyway.

He hadn't even realized how it had happened, but somewhere down the line they'd become something like friends. It was a relief to have someone around that he could be himself with; when he was alone with Ginny he could drop the 'Harry' act and just be Draco.

He saw the waves of wild red hair before he really saw her, it hung loose down to her waist, catching the sun as if it were fire. She held her broom over her shoulder, and with her free arm covered her eyes against the glare of the setting sun.

"Weasel Junior," Draco said for all greeting, letting his eyes roam over her appreciatively.

"Hello there, ferret," she shot back, but when his eyes met her brown ones, he was pleased to see the hint of a blush on her cheeks.

It was strange, this game they were playing.

Draco had never been completely indifferent to her; not since he'd first seen her play Quidditch. But aside from the occasional exchange of barbs on the pitch he'd never really spoken to her, and now that he was getting to know her he found himself liking her more and more. It bothered him that he couldn't be certain if her responses were for him or for Potter.

"So they've taken it well, haven't they?" Ginny inquired, as they kicked off the ground.

"As well as can be expected," he replied, hovering up on his broom lazily. "It was so weird. It felt like breaking up or something."

"I suppose in a way it kind of was."

Draco shrugged.

"I'm to meet with Granger in the library tomorrow night to study," he said after a while. "Am I supposed to pretend that I'm some kind of a dumbass? I'm better at Potions than Granger is."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "You know, Malfoy, you might as well start calling them by their names. You might slip up one day, and you don't really know how long this will last. Still no reply from Harry?"

Draco remained silent. Her words echoed in his mind... _You don't know how long this will last_...

He cursed quietly under his breath.

"It's not so hard, really," she went on, unaware of his distress. "The way you stumbled on Hermione's name that first time... little things like that add up. That was one of the things that made me realize you weren't Harry."

Draco turned to look at her with interest. "And what else?"

"Well..." She trailed off, turning away.

"Yes?" he pressed, raising an eyebrow.

"The way you look at me," Ginny said quietly.

Draco hovered closer to her, taking in the pale line of freckles that dusted her cheeks, the way her full lips curved at the edges as she tried not to smile. He looked up into her honey colored eyes and raised his eyebrows. "Which way is that?"

Ginny laughed, and Draco realized she was nervous.

_As behooves her,_ he thought smugly, but truth be told, his own heart was beating a little faster.

Ginny beheld him in silence for a moment, her head tilted to the side. "As if you were really seeing me..." she said at last. "As if you were appraising me. Harry never measures anyone with his eyes like that. At least, not me."

"And?" he said, holding her gaze. "Do you like it?"

She laughed, and Draco smirked.

She was about to speak when suddenly she spotted something in the ground. "Luna's here," she said, peering down.

"So?" Draco demanded.

"_Harry. _You're expected to say hi – she's your friend, remember?"

Draco rolled his eyes.

A moment later he dive-bombed to the ground, stopping dramatically a few feet away from where Loony Lovegood stood.

_Do NOT call her Loony_, he instructed himself, as he dismounted his broom and approached her.

She was wearing vegetables in place of earrings, and her dirty blonde hair was done in two long braids which fell down either side of her chest. She wore a necklace made of what appeared to be Butterbeer corks.

_Do NOT call her Loony!_

"Hello, Luna!" Ginny greeted cheerfully, landing beside Draco. "Didn't see you today."

"Hello, Ginny," she replied. "I've been in the library during meals. I'm helping my father with some research on the Kacky Snorkle."

_Loony Lovegood!_ - Draco pressed his lips into a tight line - _Do NOT..._

"And hello, Harry." Loony's large, milky-blue eyes focused on the Slytherin.

Draco fidgeted beside Ginny, and attempted to smile brightly. "Hullo," - _Do NOT call her _- "Loo-na."

The redhead cleared her throat.

Loony – who hadn't once blinked since she'd arrived, Draco noted – fixed her silvery blue eyes on his, staring at him silently for some moments.

For a second his well developed sense of paranoia whispered that Luna could actually see him. He stared back nervously, feeling a trickle of sweat slide down his neck.

"There's a very intense energy coming from you today," the Ravenclaw observed at last. "Nargles wouldn't dare come near you."

"Oh... good."

"I'll stand next to you for a bit, if you don't mind." Loony fingered her unusual necklace and came up to stand next to Draco. She was shorter than Ginny, coming barely up to his chin, and she smelled faintly of rosemary. "They've been through my things again. They hid my shoes," she said, and it was then Draco noticed she was barefoot.

"The Ravenclaws?" he asked.

"No, the Nargles," she said dreamily.

Draco exchanged a glance with Ginny, who had narrowed her eyes. He'd heard that Loony Lovegood's housemates picked on her often, hiding her things and playing jokes on her.

It had seemed funny to him then, and had she been in his own House he probably would have picked on her in a similar way. But now, with the younger girl standing next to him serenely - borrowing energy to fend off the Nargles who'd stolen her shoes - Draco didn't it find it so amusing.

"Luna, you can borrow a pair of my shoes," Ginny said. "I think they'll be a bit big on you, but we can use the Shrinking Charm."

"Or we could try looking for your own shoes," Draco added.

"Thanks, but I think I'll go have some pudding instead," she replied, blinking (finally). "I'm sure they'll turn up soon. The Nargles will get tired of playing with them eventually."

Giving them a dreamy smile the girl ambled off, putting an end to the conversation.

"Bye," Draco called after her. "Luna."

He turned to Ginny, only to find she was already looking at him, her full lips curved into a faint smile.

"Come on," he told her, jumping back on his broom and kicking off.

**OOO**

That night in the common room, Draco played Wizard's Chess with Ginny's brother.

"We haven't played in weeks! How did you manage to get better?" the redhead sulked, as Draco's knight obliterated one of his rooks.

"I think my IQ has increased considerably in the past few days," Draco said, grinning.

Ginny snorted from one of the red armchairs, but didn't look up from her book. Draco's eyes lingered on her a moment, before the developments on the chess board reclaimed his full attention.

"Oh no, you don't!" Ron muttered, foreseeing and effectively blocking the Slytherin's move on his remaining bishop.

As they continued to play, Draco admitted to himself that the ketchup-head was an excellent adversary, of the likes he'd had few and far between. Surprisingly, very few people in Slytherin liked to play chess. There always seemed to be something better to do, something more interesting, more depraved.

Draco thought of the co-ed strip poker tournaments that took place in Blaise Zabini's room. Smirking to himself, he wondered briefly how Potter was faring in the snake-pit. Then, as always happened when he began thinking along those lines, he wondered why this had happened – to what end? And how?

"I can't wait for the Quidditch season to begin!" Ron exclaimed, breaking Draco out of his reverie.

This time it was Hermione who snorted. She was sitting at one of the desks, completing an extra three inches on a Potions parchment.

"Yeah, me too," Draco agreed. "Looks like there will be some good line-ups this year."

"Yeah, even Slytherin will have a good team, I think," the Gryffindor Keeper said conversationally.

Ginny's amber eyes flicked from her book to Draco's face. _Stay relaxed_, they seemed to be saying.

"That great git Malfoy finally did one good thing when he took over the team. Remember all those big stupid trolls that got on just because they were strong? They could barely fly; no wonder Slytherin never won anything," Ron went on. "But the way Malfoy struts around, you'd think they'd already won the World Cup or something."

"Yes," Draco said pleasantly, but his fingers stiffened where they rested on his thigh. "One thing about Malfoy, though, he knows his Quidditch. You have to admit."

Ron shrugged. "I admit he knows how to be a pompous arse, too. Remember what he did to that Hufflepuff kid at the start of the year?"

"Er..."

"He made Toby Smith cry in Hogsmeade," Hermione said absently.

"Yes," Ron said, shaking his head. "What a fucking git."

"Ron!" the brunette chastised gently, looking up from her essay.

"What a fornicating git," he amended, sticking his tongue out at his girlfriend.

"Well _I _think he's handsome," Ginny said calmly, turning the page of her book. "I love the color of his eyes. They're a certain shade of gray. Like clouds before it rains."

The Slytherin's eyes shot to her, but she didn't look up.

"_What_?" Ron demanded, turning in his chair so he could glare at his sister. "That _ferret_?"

"He's not at all bad looking," Hermione agreed. "It's his personality that's horrid."

"Pssh. I don't think he's good looking _at all,_" Ron snapped, still glaring at his sister. "Remember how pointy his chin was in first year?"

Draco was still looking a Ginny, noting the way the tips of her ears had turned bright pink.

Wait a minute - what was wrong with his chin?

"His chin's fine now," Hermione interjected, and Draco looked at her gratefully.

"It's his attitude that's rotten," she continued. "He thinks that just because he's rich and from a powerful family he can go around stomping on everyone. It's disgusting."

"With a father like that – " Ron began " – and with his mum always –"

"Harry!" Ginny exclaimed, jumping to her feet. "You were supposed to meet Luna in the library to help with her research, remember? I'll go with you, I have to look up something too."

She stormed up to him and grabbed him by the arm, dragging him out of the portrait hole before anyone could react.

"Oi! We didn't finish our game," Ron's voice could be heard saying indignantly, as the portrait swung closed behind them.

"I'm so sorry, Draco," Ginny said sincerely, once they were out in the hallway.

Draco looked at her in surprise; it was the first time she'd ever referred to him by his given name. He realized she was still clasping his hand in her warm smaller one.

"They were talking a lot of trash..." she went on. "Don't listen to them."

"Don't apologize," Draco said, not withdrawing his hand from hers. "There's no need. Some of what they said was true..."

"Yes, but they had no right. Except they didn't know you were there... but still. It must have been mortifying for you."

"I'll live," Draco said, feigning nonchalance. "So," he added, looking down at their still joined hands, "a certain shade of gray, like clouds before it rains?"

Ginny's face became bright red, but she held his gaze.

_What's going on in there_, Draco wondered, feeling himself sink into the twin pools of amber.

A moment later she withdrew her hand from his gently and turned away.

"Come on, Draco...let's go to the library."

He gazed after her retreating form for a moment, then followed after her. "Okay, Ginny."

**OOO**

Later that night he returned to his quarters, slipping into bed quietly as Ron and Neville examined his toad, which appeared to have taken ill.

"Night, guys," he murmured, drawing the curtains around his bed. When he closed his eyes, he Ginny's face again, as if she were still there with him. And then he dreamt.

**OOO**

"_And so it ends like this, Potter." _

_There it was. That raspy, sibilant voice coming from beneath the hood of the cloak. A sepulchral whisper, like a cold dry wind blowing over a grave. _

_He had anticipated this moment, constructed it in his mind with care, down to the finest detail – the words he would hear, the coil in his belly, the stench of death coming from the thing in the robes, the cry of a bird piercing the night, the wind drying the sweat of his forehead - and now that it was really happening he was overcome by disbelief, unable to shake the feeling that he was in a dream. _

"_And so you lose everything. Everything you would protect with your own life. You are, after all, your father's son."_

_The raised wand, his own wand lifting to meet it. Already he knew who would lose. Already he knew that the loss of his friends, those who had become his family, was the final blow, the one he'd be unable to overcome. Because, after all, who was he to be allowed to continue living where so many others had died for his sake? It was all over now. _

**OOO**

Harry awoke from an uneasy sleep plagued by nightmares. Every night was the same, since before he'd exchanged bodies with Malfoy. He might have left the body behind, but the demons lingered still.

During the day he could put thoughts of what was to come out of his mind easily enough; he had too much to worry about, too much going on around him that required attention and care. It was a relief to have something consume him so wholly as to make the issue of Voldemort and the stupid prophecy take a backseat to his life. Or rather, Malfoy's life.

Today Malfoy had Charms, Arithmancy and History of Magic before lunch – none of these classes involved Gryffindor interaction, fortunately.

Double Potions sitting in the wrong end of the room, with the wrong set of people, had been torture for Harry. Malfoy had seen fit not to attend, thankfully, but Ron and Hermione had. When the Gryffindors weren't there, he could handle it all well enough. If he was honest with himself he had to admit that playing Malfoy was almost... _fun_. It was certainly much easier than being himself.

Again, he briefly wondered how Malfoy was faring, but didn't bother to look and see for himself.

He did glance at the headmaster's empty place at the center of the staff table, wondering when – and if – he'd be back. Could he have been right? Harry had never outright doubted Dumbledore before, but this...

He resisted the urge to look towards Malfoy; he knew the Slytherin would be looking at him already.

"Pineapple, love?" Samantha Smith, a pretty Slytherin seventh year, inquired sweetly.

"Cantaloup," Harry said shortly, giving her a brief look of acknowledgment once she'd played her part of sexy wench, or whatever it was she was aiming for.

From the other end of the table, Daphne Greengrass glared at the brunette who'd just served fruit to Harry.

Malfoy had all the women in Slytherin drooling over him and ready to bend over backwards for him. Probably literally, if he were so inclined.

Harry took up his own fork and started feeding himself before the seventh year offered. The cantaloup was ripe and sweet, its scent perfuming the air gently.

"I thought you hated cantaloup," observed Blaise Zabini, of all people.

"So did I," said Harry smoothly. "But then I tried it."

"Ah," Zabini said, reaching for more pumpkin juice.

That was the end of that.

No one to exhibit concern or demand explanations, no one to stare at him in shock or challenge him with old facts. In short, no Hermione. No Ron.

Harry almost felt sad, but weirdly relieved.

His best friends walked by him every day but didn't even see him. The one to notice him was, incredibly, Ginny. It was strange, but he'd find her looking at him at the oddest of times, right from the beginning.

He would spare her a brief glance, sometimes.

Paranoia settled in, and Harry wondered if she possibly knew...but no. That was impossible.

Which meant this was a game she and Malfoy usually played. The thought made him slightly uneasy for reasons he didn't fully understand.

When the owls swooped in that morning, Draco Malfoy received a parcel from home. It was delivered by a large and majestic looking eagle with the darkest shade of feathers Harry had ever seen. So black they were almost blue. The bird glared at Harry before releasing a black box with the Malfoy crest stamped on top into his waiting hands.

Harry felt awkward opening Malfoy's mail – especially with the man himself glaring daggers at him from across the Great Hall – but it had to be done.

Ignoring his own irate face, Harry got to work.

Within the box he found freshly baked fudge. Pinned to the container was an elegant little note from Narcissa Malfoy that read: _For my chocolate monster! Love, Mum. _

Under the fudge there was a newspaper clipping from an obscure publication he'd never heard of. Harry was surprised to discover it was an article on the meaning of social responsibility and the use of violence as a means to an end. Clearly it had been written by one of the more intellectual Death Eater types, Harry thought, and was again surprised when he reached the end and saw who was credited: _L. Malfoy_.

Attached to the article was a note written in an exquisite cut of parchment, the penmanship surprisingly similar to that of Malfoy's, from what Harry had seen of his parchments and the rain of owls the Slytherin kept sending him.

This note was from Lucius Malfoy to his son.

_The world,_ he wrote_, is much larger than what is contained between the walls of your school. One day you will have to step into it. _

_Consider your choices, my dear son, for they are limited. For all of us. _

_Yours, _

_Lucius._

_What –_ Harry thought dryly – _no "Love, Dad''?_

And yet, if one overlooked the fact that Lucius Malfoy was not-so-subtly exhorting his sixteen year old son to become a Death Eater, his letter had an almost tender quality to it.

Did Malfoy feel loved by his parents?

Did it matter?

Yes, he decided. It certainly did.

_Consider your choices, for they are limited. _

Harry met the angry pair of eyes that glared at him from across the hall, sparkling like emeralds.

Wisdom, he thought, was found everywhere.

**OOO**

"How about a game of Wizard's Chess later?" Daphne purred into Harry's ear, tracing the line of his jaw with the tip of her finger.

He was sitting on one of the few armchairs the Slytherin common room had to offer, with the girl curled like a cat on his right armrest. He had loosened his silver and green striped tie, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to the elbow, and had propped up his feet on an ottoman, crossing his long legs at the ankle.

"Do you play?" he asked, brushing her hand away. He didn't feel comfortable showing affection in public, and he doubted Malfoy did.

Harry had perfected Malfoy's air of boredom by this time, and had to admit he quite enjoyed holding court. In the wolf pack hierarchy of Slytherin, Draco Malfoy was regarded as one of the top dogs. No one usually approached him without clearance from one of his posse: Crabbe and Goyle, who sat nearby playing cards, and Pansy Parkinson, who was giving Zabini a shoulder rub and shooting Daphne murderous glances.

Blaise Zabini himself sat absorbed in a book, completely indifferent to Pansy's ministrations and everything else. Harry had trouble figuring out the nature of his relationship with Malfoy; in the time he'd been here they'd crossed few words, but the boy was always to be found near him, ready to share in a sardonic grin whenever something particularly absurd happened.

There were others Malfoy was on good terms with, such as Theodore Nott and the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team. Then there were the ones who were openly hostile, such as the group of seventh years sitting across the room. Everyone else seemed to be alternately wary or in awe of him.

"I've been practicing," Daphne confessed, bringing Harry out of his musings. Cautiously, she brushed some strands of fine blond hair away from his forehead. "Since I heard that you enjoy playing."

Harry closed his eyes and let her run her fingers through his hair. It felt good to be touched so intimately, though it didn't mean anything. Nothing meant anything here. At first he'd felt guilty for indulging – to be honest a part of him still did. Strangely enough, he'd wondered what Hermione's reaction would be if she knew what he was doing. He'd felt ashamed at this thought, but it hadn't stopped him.

"Keep practicing," he told her quietly. "Perhaps we'll play...some time."

He was certain he would enjoy spending more time with Daphne, and it had been a while since he'd played Wizard's Chess. But he had to be careful with her. Already he could feel his eyes straying to her when she wasn't near him, his mind filled with her at the oddest of times. It was a relief to have his thoughts occupied on something other than Dumbledore's absence, Voldemort's existence, his own part to play in it all.

But this would end soon, just as suddenly as it had begun, and there was no chance of any sort of relationship between them once he was in his own body. It was stupid to develop any sort of attachment beyond the physical.

With this in mind he turned his head, letting her hand drop to the side. He liked that Daphne understood things quickly and with little need for words, so Harry was surprised to feel the girl's mouth on his ear. The name she whispered made him remain still.

_Wilkes_.

As if on cue, and though his eyes were closed, Harry became aware of someone standing near him. "It's been a long while since Malfoy has graced the arena with his presence," observed Nehemias Wilkes airily, his voice too loud to be truly casual.

He was a seventh year whose father had fallen out of favor within the ranks of Death Eaters thanks to a dispute with Lucius Malfoy – or so Harry had gathered from the occasional whisperings of his new housemates.

He became aware of the sudden and absolute silence in the room. He felt the girl's hand tense on his forearm, and could imagine pairs of eyes darting from the older boy to him.

"How good of you to notice, Wilkes," he said softly, in Malfoy's caustic drawl. He didn't bother to open his eyes. "I hear you've been training arduously waiting for such a time. Three hours every night, is it? You're quite the hard little worker..."

There were muted whispers around the room, then absolute silence as those gathered waited for what Malfoy would say next.

"I would certainly reward such tenacity," Harry continued, opening his eyes. He fixed them on Wilkes and smiled pleasantly. "Perhaps I could assist in teaching you a thing or two."

The older boy's face had reddened considerably, but his insolent sneer remained in place.

"How about a duel Saturday after next, then?" inquired Malcolm Higgs, a seventh year known to Harry. He'd been a Beater for Slytherin before Malfoy had taken over and revamped the team.

"Yes, Draco!" piped up a girl a year above Harry. "I love to watch you duel. It's been too long."

Nehemias Wilkes looked around smugly. "They clamor for you, Malfoy. I hope you won't refuse...unless you're scared."

Harry gave a dry laugh. "Why don't you go off and practice some more, Wilkes? I want you in top shape for Saturday."

Zabini gave him an amused grin while Daphne and Pansy glared daggers at the retreating Wilkes.

The Gryffindor made sure to keep an insolent smirk on his face while the others were watching, but all the while he wondered why his heart was beating so fast, and why he felt so oddly exhilarated.

More importantly, how had he known all the right things to say?

Somewhere in that exchange he'd stopped pretending to be Malfoy – and had started being himself.

_That was all me,_ he realized, with a feeling of unease.

Where within him had this been hidden?

* * *

><p><strong>Notes: <strong>sorry for the long delay! For those of you who have written asking how come this story won the Fic Exchange in 2010 without being completed, and saying you recall reading it in its entirety before, know that I originally published this anonymously and in hastily completed form under The DG Forum account, in accordance with exchange rules. That was in 2010. I am now cleaning it up a bit and republishing under my own account.

Again, a big thank you for the amazing feedback. I had no idea how much people liked this story until I started getting all these owls demanding updates. You won't have to wait long for the next installment. Enjoy!


	5. Recognized

**Chapter 5: Recognized**

Draco dressed leisurely that morning, knotting the red and gold tie at his neck with deft, nimble fingers. Invigorated after his early morning jog with Ginny Weasley, he found that he felt better than he had in days – until he remembered that he would have to put up with Harry fucking Potter wearing his face in several of his classes today. Pausing to glare at his black haired and bespectacled reflection in the mirror, the Slytherin vowed to catch the attention of his nemesis today – one way or another.

"Harry! You got up early _to go to the pitch?_" the bushy-haired girl that was Hermione Granger demanded, a distinct pitch of hysteria evident in her voice as she fell into step beside him on his way to the Great Hall. "But you haven't done Professor Snape's ten inch parchment on the uses of Amanita Virosa! It's due today!"

"Oh, I know that." Draco raised his eyebrows, secretly amused by the girl's evident distress. "I'll just tell that hook-nosed bastard I've forgotten it. It's not as if I don't have more important things to worry about, right?"

Hermione's eyes widened with alarm. "You can't be serious..."

"Hermione, I don't have a sense of humor that I'm aware of," Draco replied calmly, seating himself across from Ginny Weasley at the Gryffindor table.

His eyes swiftly glanced over her, taking in every detail of her appearance – from her wild coppery hair, floating about her like a living thing, to the way her small fingers held her cutlery – but he did not return the smile she greeted him with. She rolled her eyes and continued eating her scrambled eggs.

At his side, Granger continued to harp on and on about Potions and the wrath of Snape, but Draco had already tuned her out, his attention now on the Slytherin table. He spotted Potter seated at his usual place, holding court with Zabini at his side.

Once again Draco was struck by his own similarity to Lucius, evident in the broadness of the shoulders, the long lines of his body and in the athletic build, but most of all in that silvery blond hair that now spilled over the edge of his collar. Draco willed his own face to look up, but Potter seemed intent on ignoring him.

_We'll see if I can capture your attention in Potions class_, the Slytherin thought darkly.

**OOO**

"I know what you did, Harry."

The words were whispered in his ear, so very softly it was more like a sigh then a sentence. Harry was shocked to discover Ginny Weasley pressed up to him, the sides of their bodies touching intimately as if they were lovers, as if they were close friends – two things they'd never been. In spite of that, or perhaps because of it, there were so many things left unsaid between them that the stubborn silence that always seemed to envelop them weighed more than words ever could.

She was forever surprising him, challenging him at every turn, and now she met Malfoy's ice gray eyes straight on, without flinching. Harry struggled to keep his face devoid of expression, but the pit of his stomach felt leaden.

_She knows..._

Implications ramified in his mind, his brain struggling to connect dots.

Malfoy had confided in Ginny?

Ginny!

And Ginny looking at Malfoy the way she did...

…Had Dumbledore known about this? Was that why...?

"See you on the pitch, _Malfoy_," she murmured against his ear again, making the fine hair on the back of his neck bristle. She held his gaze for a second longer before slipping away between the throng of students. Harry's eyes latched onto the tip of her waist-length braid, the last of her that remained in his line of vision until she disappeared completely.

"The girl Weasley, eh?" Theodore Nott remarked appreciatively, approaching him slowly.

Harry wasn't surprised. Despite how crowded the hallway was, it was stupid to think that his interaction with Ginny had gone by unnoticed. Malfoy was always on someone's radar, not unlike himself.

"You always had an eye for that one, didn't you?" Nott clapped him on the back. "Looks like she's ripe for the picking, old chap."

The impression these words caused him was so great that Harry felt like keeling over, but Malfoy's body knew what to do. Slowly, lazily, the corners of his mouth curved into the ghost of a smirk.

**OOO**

"Potter? I realize that because of the grossly unwarranted admiration of some of my colleagues, you've perhaps come to feel that you're well above the demands made of the average student." The silky baritone of Professor Severus Snape's voice did not betray his irritation, but his dark eyes gleamed dangerously. "But as long as you're enrolled in this class you'll be expected to turn in assignments on time. Five points from Gryffindor, and detention tonight, I think."

"Great," Draco grumbled loudly, and several people, Potter included, turned their heads to gape at him in obvious surprise. Granger's mouth was forming a perfectly round _O_, her eyes so wide they looked like they would pop out of her skull at any moment.

Snape's hawk-like eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared almost imperceptibly. "_Twenty_ points from Gryffindor," he said silkily. "Leave my sight this instant, Potter. Don't return until that parchment on Amanita Virosa is completed, and add an extra 3 inches while you're at it."

"Yes, sir." Draco smiled insolently as he sauntered out. He could feel a pair of steel gray eyes fixed intently on his back, and resisted the urge to return his own irate gaze.

_You don't know who you're dealing with, Potter, _he thought smugly._ But you'll soon find out… _

**OOO**

Draco's detention went better than expected. Clearly Snape hated Potter's guts, and wanted as little to do with him at possible. He had left a parchment with instructions on how many bullfrogs to gut, and on what ingredients needed replenishing in his stores. Draco made short work of what was required, and used the extra time to work on his overdue parchment. Once detention was over he had to run over to the pitch on an empty stomach – today's practice would be one of the last before the first match of the season: Slytherin vs Gryffindor on Saturday.

When he arrived on the pitch, Draco's eyes immediately sought Ginny and found her already working with the other Chasers. She must have felt his gaze, for she turned and sought him out as well, as if he'd tapped her on the shoulder. Their eyes latched onto each other like magnets, and try as he might Draco found he couldn't look away. What was worse, his pulse accelerated and he felt something decidedly fluttery at the base of his stomach as the red haired witch flew down to meet him.

"I brought you a sandwich from dinner," Ginny said, touching down lightly next to him. "And Hermione sent you a piece of treacle tart."

"Thanks," Draco said indifferently, but his stomach betrayed him by growling loudly a second later.

Smiling, Ginny tossed him a parcel before taking off again. Draco watched her until she all but disappeared, so high up in the sky.

_What's wrong with me?_ he wondered uneasily, irked at his reaction to the witch's presence.

Brushing it away from his mind, he turned his attention to the team. Draco directed the Gryffindor practice sessions in much the same way as he did in Slytherin, taking care to heed Ginny's occasional warnings ("Easy..." she'd murmured, reigning him in when he'd berated Abercrombie to the point of almost making him cry for his inept form). Some people appeared surprised at the change in "Harry's" approach to the game, namely Ron Weasley, but they couldn't argue against him. Everyone's game was seeing improvement after the first few brutal sessions.

"You're very good at this," Ginny observed after practice. She had just showered and was towel drying her long red tresses in front of her locker. "Harry's good too, but people respond differently to him."

They were alone in the locker room, as Draco had released the rest of the team earlier and only Ron and Ginny had stayed behind. The Weasley boy had left to shower in the Gryffindor dorm, presumably to flaunt his sweaty Quidditch-toned body still in full gear to Hermione.

"Do they?" Draco inquired, raising an eyebrow as he met her eyes. He swung his towel over his right shoulder and approached her slowly. "And you – do _you_ respond differently?"

Ginny's cheeks became tinted with pink, her body tensing as he stood inches away from her. "Yes," she said simply, holding his gaze.

"And why is that?" Draco brushed a strand of her wet hair away from her neck. It had darkened to the color of rusted copper and contrasted sharply with her pale skin, where, he could observe, goosebumps had formed. She smelled of strawberries and cream.

"I... I don't know," she said quietly. "Maybe it's the way you look at me."

Draco's eyes ran along the contours of her face, finally coming to rest on her plump, cherry-red lips. He wanted so badly to kiss her, but not in Potter's body. Not with Potter's lips. He looked into her eyes again, silently.

Could she see him? Could she really see that he was Draco Malfoy in there?

"How did you know it was me?" he demanded suddenly. "You knew it was 'not Harry'. But why would it be me?"

"I don't know," she said softly, looking away.

"You're lying, Ginevra."

Her fine brows knit in annoyance, her lips curving slightly into a pout.

"Yes?" he prompted, raising her chin with his fingers until her eyes met his.

"Because of how you fly...And…"

"And?"

"And because of how I feel...when you look at me," she said, not looking away. "Your eyes may be a different color, but it's the same... It's still you in there..."

Draco's hand dropped to the side of his body.

"I see," he said, because he could say nothing more, do nothing more. In his chest, his heart was beating so fast it was almost painful. Without another word, he sidestepped her and headed towards the showers.

Ginny watched him go, biting her lip. "Draco Malfoy," she whispered softly to herself, "you're a bloody idiot."

**OOO**

Wednesdays were good days for Harry, even in Slytherin. He didn't have any of the major subjects, so he didn't have to worry about Malfoy or Hermione and Ron. On a day such as this, his major worry was the continued absence of Dumbledore.

He worried that he might screw up things without the old wizard's guidance, seeing as he was the one who'd prompted this in the first place. And, if he was honest with himself, Harry was also...scared. Scared that it wouldn't work again. This swap had been a fluke, a terrifying side effect of a spell gone awry. Part of him worried that it would not be reversed...

Sighing, the Gryffindor cleared his head of such thoughts. It was a slow day, it was easy to let himself simply drift by, undisturbed. But in the break between Herbology and Transfiguration, Harry was met by a surprising sight in the corridor. There, standing before him, was Draco Malfoy.

Harry's own bright green eyes met him, sparkling with fury, the onslaught of that gaze so intense Harry felt as if he'd been struck physically. Before anyone could react to his presence, the Slytherin had grabbed his own body by the front of its robes, slamming it into the nearest wall.

"_My patience is running out_," he growled into Harry's ear, nearly lifting him off the ground.

The Slytherins watched, dumbfounded, as the two boys glared at each in a silence more loaded than words. It was Daphne who reacted first.

"What do you think you're doing!" she shrieked, pounding at Malfoy's back with her fists. "Put him down, you arse!"

Malfoy continued to glare at Harry for some moments before finally turning to look at the petite Slytherin girl as if she were a mere fly buzzing around his ear, his hands still clutching the front of Harry's robes. Green clashed against green as his eyes met hers, and he smirked before turning back to Harry.

"I hope you're having fun," Malfoy spat at Harry, releasing him gruffly. "But keep in mind – the clock is ticking." He saluted Daphne as if tipping his hat, and she blushed bright pink to the tips of her ears.

"That Harry Potter!" she exclaimed indignantly, still staring in awe after Harry's body as Malfoy sauntered away. "Who does he think he is, grabbing you that way!"

"Who cares? Pothead's a bloody idiot," Harry said caustically, rolling his shoulders to conceal the frustration he felt. From the way his face was burning he knew Malfoy's sharp cheekbones must be flushing bright red.

With Daphne attacking Malfoy like an angry poodle might – albeit a cute angry poodle – it had been impossible for him to say much for fear she would overhear; anything less than the truth might have infuriated Malfoy to the point of unmasking their identities in front of the other Slytherins.

Now he struggled to keep an amused sneer on his face as his so-called friends surrounded him.

"What the hell was that about, mate?" Nott demanded in sympathizing tones, coming up to stand beside him.

"I'd say it has something to do with the Weasley girl," Zabini said quietly, outside of Daphne's hearing range. "Have you been dipping your quill in the Gryffindor inkpot, Malfoy?"

The Slytherins burst out laughing and Harry did too, though he felt a flicker of irritation; snakes that they were, they'd emerged once the immediate danger had passed.

"Fuck Potter," he managed to say casually, adjusting his collar.

**OOO**

It had been almost two weeks since he'd been in Potter's body. _Weeks_. Not only that, he had no idea if he would ever recover his own body.

It had finally dawned on him that maybe Potter's intention in switching bodies with him had been not to gain information, but to escape. Escape the prophecy, the heroics, the sacrifice. To leave someone else in his place to take the fall for him. And who better than the son of Lucius Malfoy?

Every day Draco woke up anxious to see his own white-blond hair gleaming in the wan morning light as his body sauntered into the Great Hall. Every day he woke up wondering if last night had been the night that Potter had left, disappearing forever into the Muggle world. With Draco's body in tow.

He had discovered that there _was_ such a thing as karma; Ginny had been right. How many heartbroken or desperate notes had he received, discarded and ignored – sometimes without even reading them – in the course of the previous years? And now it was _his _turn to write notes addressed to 'Draco Malfoy', to become acquainted with the owlery, more so than he'd ever been before – and to wait.

He was a Slytherin, he knew the value of discretion. He would scribble no more than dates and times into these parchments, with what at first had been an ironic 'RSVP' attached to the bottom. He had never received a reply. For the sake of secrecy, he'd kept trying to reach Potter through owls for some time. He was beyond that now.

On Saturday afternoon Draco took the sky in a scarlet and gold Quidditch uniform, leading the charge against Slytherin on the pitch. He could have laughed at the irony, but he was determined to show Potter who was the better man, the better captain.

He watched with a growing sense of pride as his team consistently out maneuvered Potter's. Everyone was in top form today, with the exception of Draco himself. Flustered by being on the wrong side of the pitch, and by the presence of Harry Potter on the pitch in his Draco suit, Draco's flying and his ability to focus left much to be desired.

To make matters worse, he could barely keep his eyes off Ginny Weasley. The witch's bright red hair was like a beacon, shining like new copper in the sunlight. He'd been vaguely distracted by her before in matches, but now it was much worse – he found himself worrying for her safety, fretting over whether or not she'd get knocked off her broom by this or that Bludger, or if the dirty tactics of Peregrine Derrick would end with her in a heap of broken bones or worse.

When the Snitch fluttered past him an hour and a half into the match, Draco understood that it was luck and not much else that allowed his hand to close around it.

The first match of the year between Slytherin and Gryffindor ended with a victory to Gryffindor at his hands - which was wonderful and also completely ridiculous. As he touched down on the ground Draco felt a growing sense of rage within him, and when he spotted Potter amongst his teammates something in him snapped.

He launched himself at his own chest in one swiftly executed movement. They toppled to the ground as one, with Draco straddling his own body, looking down into his own chiseled face. Potter's wand was in his hand, at his own throat, the Golden Snitch still fluttering in his right hand.

"Game's up, Potter," he snarled into his ear. And then he was abruptly jerked away by his collar. Draco saw the furious faces of his own Slytherin teammates surrounding him and Potter, even as he was forcefully dragged away by the back of his Gryffindor Quidditch uniform by both Weasley and Abercrombie, the now familiar voice of Ron pleading with him to calm down.

"DETENTION, POTTER! Twenty points from Gryffindor for poor sportsmanship!" Madam Hooch roared.

Potter continued to lie there, the injured party, dirt and strands of white-blond hair covering his face, his eyes, which had darkened to the color of pewter, fixed on Draco's. Adrian Pucey dragged him to his feet, and attempted to lead him away.

The two boys continued to glare at each, even as the voice of Ginny pierced the evening air.

"_Harry!_" – they both looked up to find her floating high on her broom, her red hair swept by the wind like a banner calling out to them.

She was too far away, and as Harry and Draco were dragged away in opposite directions, neither could be certain just whom she had been appealing to.

**OOO**

He'd had to clean trophies and write an essay on the importance of decorum on the pitch. All things considered, not the worst detention he'd served. At one point both Ron and Hermione had shown up, bringing some foods pilfered from the dinner table and entreating him to cheer up. Hermione had ruffled his hair playfully before leaving, and Draco smiled at her, realizing he was no longer playing a part when he did.

More than finding her presence tolerable, he had come to genuinely like the girl. Lucius would collapse in a heap of twitching limbs if he knew that Draco harbored something like esteem for a person who wasn't even supposed to exist. A Mudblood.

What the hell was going on with him?

He stared at the backs of Potter's hands again, _I will not break rules_ ironically stamped on the right one. He had recognized this form of Dark Magic immediately, knew it to be the work of a Blood Quill.

He thought of his own solitary encounter with one of these quills, many years back, of how proud of himself he had been for not crying, though his eyes had watered from the pain, the burning. His father had recognized the difference. His father himself had healed the broken skin, erasing from the pale canvass of his body all traces of the sentence that had been branded in his mind, but not, he realized now, his heart.

_I pledge my pure blood to Lord Voldemort_

**OOO**

Saturday nights in the Slytherin common room always were, along with his private activities with Daphne, the highlights of Harry's week. Watching duels was much more exciting than losing to Ron at Wizard's Chess in the Gryffindor common room, one had to admit.

Participating in a duel...that was something else altogether.

Harry felt tiny currents of electricity shooting up and down his body as he mounted the improvised stage to complete silence. His heart was hammering wildly, and the muted buzz of anticipation emanating from the silent crowd was like a chorus of bees singing in his ear. He could feel their energy feeding him, and surprised himself feeling not unlike he did seconds before the start of a Quidditch match. The tense wait in the changing room just before stepping onto the pitch, to the roar of the crowd... Never did he feel so alive.

Clearing his head of thoughts, Harry stepped onto the dueling arena. He clutched Malfoy's wand between his fingers, willing it to do his bidding. It had resisted him so far, only reluctantly doing what he commanded. He'd been practicing in the Room of Requirement, breaking it down to accept his will, but there was always that second of hesitancy from it that in duel could prove disastrous.

And he had to win, he knew. After a loss to Gryffindor in the first game of the season, and getting attacked twice in public by "Harry Potter" without any response from him, Draco Malfoy's image had suffered somewhat. It was up to Harry to win here – convincingly.

He faced Wilkes, who looked pale and tense as a violin string wound too tautly. The opponents drew their wands and saluted each other, the seventh year jerking his head slightly in Harry's direction, while Harry bowed deeply and gracefully in obvious mockery. An absolute silence had descended on the audience.

Smirking, Harry turned his back on the older boy and counted ten steps before he squared off.

_"SECTUMSEMPRA!"_ Wilkes thundered, and a red jet of light flashed from his wand.

"_Protego!"_ Harry parried easily with a Shielding Charm. The ray of energy was deflected, showering the crowd with a rain of red sparks. "_Everte Statum_!" he countered, sending Wilkes flying back.

There was a gasp from the audience as Wilkes' back smacked into the wooden table. He quickly jumped to his feet.

"_Incendio!" _A red ball of flame shot out of the tip of the older boy's wand, spiraling towards Harry at blinding speed.

_"Aguamenti!"_ Harry shot back, and the flames from Wilkes' wand met the jet of water from Harry's. Smoke swirled in the air before disappearing over the heads of the onlookers.

Even with the split second of hesitancy from the wand, Harry's innate skill kept him one step ahead of Wilkes. Harry smirked, looking down at Malfoy's wand. He understood he'd already won, that this would be nothing compared to facing Voldemort. It was then that he truly began to enjoy himself.

_"Rictusempra!"_ Harry shot, sending Wilkes sprawling on his back once again - the crowd roared appreciatively.

The seventh year grew more and more enraged as his spells deflected off Harry's shield, as the blond's insolent smile and demeaning first year curses – _Tarantallegra?_ – cut into his carefully built defenses, to the amusement of his housemates.

Finally – now covered in painful boils thanks to the Furunculus curse – desperate and furious, he shouted the curse that was forbidden, that he knew he must never utter, at least not within these walls.

Harry saw the bright red glare of the Cruciatus shoot towards him, and crouched low to envelop himself in his shield. Images filled his head, even as Malfoy's body responded to his unspoken command.

_Voldemort's flat pale face, his red eyes flashing with mockery as "Crucio" fell from his lipless mouth. The pain, the absolute, mind blowing pain that ensued, that tore him out of his twitching body so that nothing but pain could occupy every cell._

Harry deflected the curse and stood, feeling himself energized by a living sort of anger unlike anything he'd ever experienced before, as if he'd been struck by lightning. Here he could do something more than scream in agony, in helplessness.

Here, then, was his arm and Malfoy's wand, finally as one, lifting in one precise arc, his feet moving forward with the momentum of the powerful dark magic that shot out from within. He could feel the wand between his fingers, the heat of his magic pulsing through the light, sturdy wood. The tip of his wand ignited, burned bright red, ready to burst forth the powerful magic the second before his lips made the incantation.

"_SECTUMSEMPRA!"_

His wand slashed through the air, even as the flesh of Wilkes' chest burst open, releasing a river of bright red blood.

The boy fell to his knees, blood accumulating in a pool around him as he toppled forward, face-first into the ground.

Harry stood before him, his entire body pulsating with the same strange energy that had thrummed through his wand a moment before. He looked down on the crumpled body of Wilkes and felt himself capable of achieving anything. There was nothing he couldn't do, he felt free of the boundaries that until then had held him captive. He was certain he'd be able to fly without a broom if he had wanted to.

It was him, it was all him.

_I can do this_. The realization was dizzying, but Harry felt more grounded than ever, gripping the hawthorn wand tightly in his fingers. _I can slay Voldemort. I can slay... anyone._

And then there was silence inside of him, absolute, deafening. And in the sudden vacuum he could clearly hear the words spoken in his ear, many years ago, by a small, knowing voice.

"_You could be great, you know... it's all here in your head. Slytherin would help you on the way to greatness. No doubt about that..."_

**OOO**

A brown barn owl flew into Snape's laboratory during the sixth year Gryffindor/Slytherin Double Potions class. Few people took notice, and of the Slytherins only Harry Potter did; unbeknownst to almost everyone present, he was seated next to Pansy Parkinson amid the Slytherin camp.

The bird, Harry observed, landed on the Potions Master's plain oak desk and extended its leg patiently. He watched as Snape unfolded the rolled up piece of parchment, his dark hawk's eyes briefly scanning its contents before going straight to the place where 'Harry Potter' sat.

"Potter."

Harry checked the urge to stand, looking instead to Draco.

"_Potter,_" Snape repeated impatiently. "You're expected at the headmaster's office."

By then the entire class had become aware of what was unfolding; all save one: Draco Malfoy.

_He's talking to _you_, you stupid git_, Harry thought urgently, even as Ron elbowed Draco's side.

It took only a few seconds for it to register across "Harry's" face – the Slytherin had gotten the message. For one Severus Snape, it was a few seconds too late, however.

The head of Slytherin sauntered over to Harry's desk, arms folded, his pale hands tucked into the wide sleeves of his dark robes. He looked Draco up and down disdainfully, his thin lips curled into a sneer.

"Master Potter," the dark-haired Potions Master said softly in his arrogant baritone, "perhaps you would prefer to have your meeting with the headmaster rescheduled to a time better suited to you?"

"Thank you, sir. You are _most_ accommodating," Draco said dryly. "I think now suits me well enough. It's not like I have anything interesting to do." He cast the cauldron bubbling with today's potion a meaningful glance.

There was a low gasp at the back of the laboratory, and Harry didn't need to twist around in his chair to know that its origin had been Hermione. If he'd cared to look, he would have noted her face had been drained of all its color.

_Bloody git,_ Harry thought angrily, glaring at his own body. _I would never say that, even to Snape._

"Oh, you're most welcome, Potter," Snape said, smiling viciously. "Fifty points from Gryffindor for your insolence, and two detentions. Now do run along and give my regards to Professor Dumbledore."

Draco rose to his feet and nodded at Snape, much as if he were an overzealous valet as opposed to the Professor who'd just kicked him out of class.

Snape's face remained devoid of expression, but Harry could see the fury boiling under his icy glare.

Before leaving, Draco glanced straight at Harry and smirked.

_Do you see what you've done, leaving your good name under my care?_

Harry clutched his quill so tightly that his knuckles went white, but in no way did he acknowledge the Slytherin.

As soon as Draco exited, the class became abuzz with excited, incredulous chatter. Harry Potter's name was on everyone's lips that day – yet again.

**OOO**

"And so we meet again, my young friend," Dumbledore stated, regarding Draco with his unique air of gravity and good humor. "Come in, come in! Have a seat."

Draco stepped into the headmaster's office as he always did: feeling a little like a child caught stealing from the cookie jar. Unlike before, this time there was genuine cause for concern on his part, seeing as he was wearing a Harry suit instead of his own body.

_I wonder if he can see me,_ Draco thought nervously. He surprised himself thinking he would prefer to be discovered by Dumbledore than to fool him into sharing information meant only for Harry. The thought of being privy to details he'd have to report to his father - and wouldn't – left a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

_What's wrong with me?_

"How are you?" the wizard inquired, inclining his massive head and peering at Draco from over the top of his spectacles. His bright blue eyes seemed tired.

The Slytherin paused. "I am well, sir," he replied at last. "As well as can be expected, given the circumstances." As soon as he'd said the words, Draco realized they were actually true.

"That's very good," Dumbledore said gravely. "Very good, indeed."

"And you, sir?" he asked, tilting his head to the side in a way that – as far as he knew – was neither his nor Harry's. He also realized he was feeling genuinely concerned for the wizard's well being – he'd looked better.

"I am old," Dumbledore said, smiling simply.

Draco smiled back, unsure of what to say next.

For a moment they looked at each other in silence, and Draco had the feeling that he was no longer in Harry's body, that he hadn't been, at least not since setting foot in here.

_He knows..._

"I summoned you only to greet you, young fellow. It will be...quite some time before we meet again. Perhaps some parting words, then?"

"I don't understand, sir... You've just returned. Are you going on another long journey?"

The old wizard smiled. "Not quite as long as yours, my friend, for I am at my journey's end, where yours has barely begun. You have already chosen your path, as I once chose mine."

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it. He hated when old people went out of their way to be cryptic. Was he talking about the circle of life? About dying? About the Dark Lord?

Probably the Dark Lord.

Dumbledore's eyes, still tired and old, twinkled behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. "Forgive me, I do enjoy being mysterious, I must confess!" He smiled, reaching for the candy jar on his desk. "Before we say our farewell, have a lemon drop. And remember that not all that which is at first bitter leaves a bad aftertaste."

It was Draco's turn to sigh. He did as he was told, however, putting a piece of candy into his mouth and letting it roll on his tongue.

Dumbledore observed him in grave silence for some moments, and again Draco had the distinct impression that he'd been transferred into his own body for this interview. He'd never felt more like himself.

"You worry for what you must do, but don't let your heart be troubled. Your destiny is a great one," Dumbledore said quietly, "if only you allow yourself to take what is your portion, and not the one that has been set out for you."

_He thinks I'm Harry._

The realization felt like a bucket of cold water dumped on Draco's his head.

"Be safe on your long journey. Pack lightly – and always leave some room for chocolate." The old wizard stood, and Draco followed suit; they clasped hands briefly. "Farewell, my young friend," Draco heard Dumbledore say as he left, his heart heavy with the realization that not one of the wizard's beautiful words had been meant for him.

Giving a short nod, the Slytherin turned and exited the headmaster's office.

"Oh, and Draco? Bonds forged out of love prove stronger than those forged by time or honor. They both love you very much, do they not?"

Draco caught Dumbledore's smile as the passageway disappeared behind solid rock, and for a moment he didn't seem quite so old or quite so tired.

The Slytherin stood there for some moments, trying to fully process all that had been said. He was still too dazed to feel truly shocked.

That night, lying in bed in the heart of Gryffindor, it _really _hit him. The conviction that the old wizard had known of the switch, had known all along, maybe even before he himself or even Potter had.

In the coming months, Draco's actions for the sake of love would cause his father to renege him. Lucius Malfoy would die and it would be years before Draco understood the meaning of the quiet words he'd heard as a boy, standing at the threshold of Dumbledore's office.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes: <strong>Extra long chapter, y'all. Thanks again for your wonderful feedback, your reviews are greatly appreciated! The next chapter will be up soon.


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